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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 








THAT WILD WHEEL 


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FRANCES ELEANOR TROLLOPE 

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AUTHOR OF “AMONG ALIENS” “THE SACRISTAN’S HOUSEHOLD” 

“LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA ” ETC. 



ILLUSTRATED 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 

1892 


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Copyright, 1892, by Harper & Brothers. 


AU rights reserved. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; 

With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; 

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.” 

Tennyson’s “Idylls of the King.” 


CHAPTER I. 

It was the middle of September. Tyburnia and Belgravia were 
doubtless duly depopulated, and blankly fronted, with shuttered 
windows, such unfashionable individuals as might occasionally 
wake the sleeping echoes of their pavement. But in a certain 
London thoroughfare, on a certain Saturday evening, the life of 
the great city roared and rushed as usual ; unconscious of the 
absence of a few thousand individuals, as the main body of a 
mighty river is unaffected by the ebb and flow that periodically 
fills and empties some shallow creek. 

The air was mild and soft ; and jets of gas flaring nakedly in 
butchers’ shops and above greengrocers’ stalls made blurs of 
coarse yellow light in the hazy dusk. The brassy voices of the 
venders shouting their wares seemed to bear a queer analogy 
to the flaring lights, and to offend the ear with much the same 
sort of unpleasant sensation as the crude glare inflicted on the 
eye. 

Certainly none of the senses were caressed by the sights, 
sounds, and scents of that crowded street. Stalls filled with het- 
erogeneous lumps of raw meat, vast piles of cabbages in various 
stages of staleness, apples, oranges, onions, fish, mingled their 
odors with the smell of gas and sawdust, the hot steam from 
1 


2 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


cookshops, and sickening whiffs from the public- houses, whose 
doors were swinging backward and forward with ceaseless move- 
ment of a pendulum, as the human tide poured in and out at 
those gaudy, gilded portals. Poverty decent and poverty dirty, 
poverty defiant and poverty depressed, frowsy rags, flaunting 
mock velvets, and dog’s-eared artificial flowers, jostled each other 
on the filthy pavement, and were impartially appealed to by the 
leather-lunged butcher in a stentorian yell to “ Buy, buy, buy !” 

And what a nightmare of faces as they streamed into the 
quivering glare of the gaslights! Drunken faces, hungry faces, 
sick faces; brutal, timid, anxious, reckless, smiling faces, in end- 
less variety. Very few with any trace of beauty ; for the throng 
at that time and place was largely composed of a class so poor as 
to be often insufficiently fed, and seldom wholesomely fed. Star- 
vation streaked with gin is not a regimen favorable to bodily per- 
fection ; neither has the pallor induced by foul air that cream- 
tinted whiteness admired by some poetic minds. 

Nevertheless, a figure belonging to some higher social stratum 
would now and then come from the crowd into the hazy halo 
around a gas-jet, pass across it, and recede into comparative dim- 
ness. Just as the most energetic of the salesmen outside a large 
butcher’s shop divided the shuddering air with a tremendous yell, 
there appeared, strongly illuminated by the meteoric glare of his 
lights, a face which differed from the faces around it, as the stars 
differ from the gas. It was rather pretty than beautiful, but its 
charm lay in its exquisite refinement of expression. It affected 
one at first sight with a sense of infinite delicacy, sensibility, and 
purity. Since, however, these qualities are far from being uni- 
versally attractive, the owner of the face in question passed along 
without incurring any special attention or admiration. 

She was a girl of about twenty years of age, very poorly dressed, 
and evidently well accustomed to walk about alone. She moved 
with a swift, steady pace, threading her way composedly through 
the crowd, and apparently undisturbed by the many repulsive 
sights and sounds which assailed her senses. It is said that use 
can harden one to almost anything. But certain very sensitive 
souls have a peculiar way of retreating within themselves. It is 
not that they are hardened against coarse impressions ; but they 
hide from them, and take refuge, like a beleaguered garrison, in 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


3 


the innermost citadel, leaving an inferior kind of bodily percep- 
tions to man the outward walls. 

Presently the girl turned out of the great thoroughfare into a 
side street that was comparatively dark and quiet, and stopped at 
a door with a brass plate bearing the words, “Miss Hughes. Day 
School for Young Ladies.” The house, like all its neighbors to 
right and left, was shabby with a positive and hopeless shabbiness 
— distinctly below anything which could justify the compound 
epithet “shabby-genteel.” This was shabbiness simple and un- 
genteel ; and yet the house was marked by one characteristic re- 
deeming it from absolute squalor, and distinguishing it from its 
neighbors — all those parts of it which could be cleaned by the 
personal efforts of its inmates were clean. The window-panes 
glittered without a smear; the brass door-plate was burnished un- 
til it shone like gold ; the stone steps leading down into the mis- 
erable little area had been carefully swept. That the bricks of 
which the house was built were incrusted with a deep layer of 
grime, and that the paint was so dingy as to make its original 
hue a mere matter of conjecture, gave a peculiar value to these 
evidences of neatness, which gained a charm by contrast, like 
the flash of ivory teeth out of a swarthy face. 

The girl whose footsteps we have been following rang at the 
bell, and almost immediately the door was opened by an elderly 
woman servant, who, saluting the young lady by the name of 
“ Miss Barbara,” observed that she was a bit later than usual. 

“ No ; I think not, Larcher,” answered Miss Barbara. Her 
speech was in delightful harmony with her face. It was pleasant 
in tone, and had that finished, clear-cut simplicity which denotes 
culture. Refined gold is a much simpler substance than the 
rouo;h ore. 

“ Ah, well, perhaps it was mistress being impatient to see you 
made her think you late,” answered the woman. 

“I hope Aunt Judith has not been uneasy about me?” said 
Barbara, taking off her cloak, which she hung on a peg in the 
narrow passage. 

“Oh no, Miss Barbara; not to say uneasy. But she’s been fid- 
geting for you to come 1101116.” Then, dropping her voice, Larcher 
added, “She’s had a letter; but of course you’ll hear all about it.” 

Without waiting for any further parley, Barbara entered the 


4 


THAT WILL) WHEEL. 


front room, which was the sole sitting-room of the family. Here 
a round table was spread for tea, and, in spite of the mild tem- 
perature out of doors, a glowing fire burned in the grate. A 
square of dark drugget covered the middle of the floor, the rest 
of which displayed bare boards, white with many scrubbings. 
Such pieces of furniture as were modern were of the plainest and 
cheapest sort; but a few old-fashioned articles — a couple of arm- 
chairs, a corner cupboard of carved oak, a convex mirror in a gilt 
frame of the period of the first empire — were handsome and solid. 
A guitar-case stood in one corner; and, in another, a set of plain 
deal shelves, edged with red leather neatly nailed along them, held 
a small collection of books. The most noticeable feature in the 
room was a number of sketches in oil and water-colors, many of 
them unframed, which decorated the walls. These drawings were 
not such as one would expect to find in that shabby house in an 
obscure back street. Many of them were masterly ; and all, even 
the roughest, were unmistakably the work of no mean artist. 

The only occupant of this room when Barbara opened the door 
was a little old lady, seated in an arm-chair drawn close up to one 
side of the hearth, while her feet, supported on a low hassock, 
were stretched out in front of the fire so as to enjoy its full heat. 
She had delicate regular features, remarkably beautiful dark eyes, 
thick black eyebrows, and silky tendrils of snow'-whitc hair curl- 
ing from beneath her cap down each side of her face. 

At the sound of the opening door she looked up eagerly. “Oh, 
I am so glad you have come, Barbara,” she said, in a fiutc-like old 
voice, which, though sweet, had lost its freshness, as the worsteds 
in an elaborate sampler hanging above the round mirror on the 
wall had faded into mere ghosts of blue and scarlet. But there 
was nothing at all ghost-like in the appearance of Miss Judith 
Hughes. She was plump and well-nourished ; with a pink color 
— somewhat heightened just now by the fire — in her round cheeks. 

Her grandniece — for such was the relationship between them — 
advanced into the room, gently kissed the old lady’s forehead, and 
remained standing by her side, but withdrawn as far as possible out 
of the range of the fire. The little room was oppressively warm to 
one coming from the open air; but a hot fire was one of Aunt 
Judith’s few' luxuries, and Barbara did not complain. 

“ Take off your hat, my dear,” said Miss Hughes. “ No ; don’t 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


5 


carry it up-stairs yet. Sit down. I want to speak to you without 
delay.” 

The girl obeyed, seating herself at once, and taking off her 
shabby black straw hat, which she held as a screen between her face 
and the fire. 

“ First of all, my dear,” continued the old lady, “ I must tell 
you that I have had a letter from poor Claude — a letter that makes 
me extremely anxious, and — ” 

“ Is my brother ill ?” interrupted Barbara, hastily. 

“ No, no, child — that is, not alarmingly ill. But he is never 
robust, poor dear boy. William does not, I think, quite under- 
stand how delicate Claude is.” 

“ Uncle William has always been very good to Claude,” put in 
Barbara, gently. 

“ Good! Of course he has been good ! Who should know that 
better than I ? But a man is sometimes a little too harsh — no ; not 
harsh, perhaps, but severe ; too strictly severe. Especially towards 
one of his own sex. William expects a great deal from a young 
man. And, after all, our poor Claude is but a child in some things 
still. But now, see here : I want to speak to you about it before 
your Uncle William comes in.” 

During this speech Miss Hughes had taken her spectacles from 
her pocket, adjusted them on her nose, and smoothed out a letter 
written on foreign paper with a fat little brown hand, on the third 
finger of which she wore an old-fashioned seal-ring. Then she 
said, “I had better, perhaps, to save time, just read the most im- 
portant parts to you, Barbara — the part that explains his leaving 
Vevcy.” 

“ Leaving Yevey !” exclaimed Barbara. The consternation in 
her tone evidently irritated Miss Hughes, who answered with a 
quick testiness which made her eyes sparkle and her winter-apple 
cheeks flush. “ There — there, don’t be explosive, Barbara ! He has 
not left Yevey — yet.” 

Then she began to read : “ ‘ My dearest, best old Auntie, — I am 
ever so much obliged to you for the enclosure in your last — ’ 
Oh no; that’s nothing; a little private word of my own to him. 
Where is it? Oh! Here, I have it: ‘It is with the greatest 
reluctance that I have come to the conclusion that Yevey does not 
agree with my health.’ Does not agree : he has scored that un- 


G 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


derneath. ‘ I have struggled on, fearing to give trouble at 
home, and to displease my uncle’ — poor dear boy! — ‘but I grow 
worse day by day. The air from the lake is so damp. The au- 
tumn has set in rainy, and people here say we are likely to have a 
wet winter. I cough very often, and have pains in my limbs.’ ” 

At this point Miss Hughes took off her spectacles and turned 
an eloquently appealing glance on the girl beside her. But Bar- 
bara did not look up. She was sitting quite still, in a listening 
attitude, her head bent down, her face in shadow, and the lamp- 
light making effects of chiaroscuro among the smooth coils of her 
brown hair. 

“Well!” cried Aunt Judith, “what do you say to that, Bar- 
bara ? It is impossible to read such things unmoved. Poor fel- 
low ! — poor Claude ! Coughing and suffering pains in his limbs ! 
The place is killing him.” 

“ When Claude first went there,” said Barbara, thoughtfully, 
“he liked Yevey very much, and said it suited him.” 

“ Ay — ay, that was in the summer ! Of course, in the summer 
it must be very different. But in autumn and winter — Besides, 
he is not happy at Madame Martin’s. I can see that very well. 
Claude is extremely sensitive to the least slight.” 

“ People who have to earn their daily bread in that way may, 
no doubt, meet with some small mortifications now and then. 
But — they are not unbearable,” said Barbara, with a smile that 
expressed a great deal of sadness. 

Those quickly spoken words touched Aunt Judith’s conscience 
somewhat. Did she not know how many petty affronts and vul- 
gar impertinences Barbara had to suffer in the course of her busi- 
ness as daily governess among the people who were for the most 
part her inferiors in mind, morals, and manners? Was she not a 
daily witness of the patient courage with which the girl performed 
her hard and miserably paid duties? Oh, certainly, she loved and 
admired Barbara with all her heart. But for Barbara’s brother 
Claude she cherished a blindly indulgent fondness. Indulgence, 
indeed, was uncalled-for in Barbara’s case, and this was the key 
to the different feelings with which their great-aunt regarded the 
brother and sister. 

Miss Judith Hughes belonged to that order of women whose 
affection is most surely evoked by demands on their forbearance, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


1 


and who inevitably idolize the most fractious and exacting of 
their children. In spite of her celibacy Miss Hughes had not 
escaped the cares which usually belong to marriage. It had been 
her lot to fill a mother’s place to two generations of nephews and 
nieces. The son and daughter of her widowed brother, David 
Hughes, had grown up under her care ; and in later years Fate 
had thrown upon her and upon her nephew, William Hughes, 
the charge of her niece’s orphan children, Barbara and Claude 
Copley. 

She was a kindly, generous- hearted woman. But, although 
claiming nothing for herself, she would make unreasonable de- 
mands on behalf of her idol Claude, with a sort of vicarious self- 
ishness which it was not always easy to meet patiently. And, 
moreover, she was subject to quick spirts of temper, that fizzed 
and flashed and subsided, all with equal rapidity. The good soul 
was rather proud of this trait, and was apt to boast that she had 
hot Welsh blood in her veins, and that the Hugheses had never 
been meek or mil k-and- watery. But, indeed, if one could im- 
agine a mouse with a hasty temper, that creature could scarcely 
be more harmless or harbor less ferocious intentions than Judith 
Hughes. 

After Barbara’s little speech about mortifications not being un- 
bearable, the old lady sat silent for a short while. At length, 
looking up appealingly — almost humbly — for her conscience was 
bearing testimony as to Barbara’s right to speak as she had spo- 
ken, she said : 

“But his health, Barbara!” Then, finding that Barbara did 
not answer, she added more emphatically, “ His health , my dear ! 
Surely that ought to be a paramount consideration !” 

“Certainly, Aunt Judith, his health ought to be considered. 
Only—” 

“ Only — ?” 

“ Claude sometimes exaggerates, you know.” 

Miss Hughes made a little impatient gesture of the shoulders, 
and drummed with her fingers on the arms of the chair she 
sat in. 

“ I see I shall get no help from yon, Barbara,” she said. “ I 
did so hope you would stand by me in persuading your Uncle 
William — ! I wonder you can be so hard to the poor boy. 


8 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Don’t you know he is not strong; ? lie has been delicate from a 
baby.” 

“ Uncle William is sure to judge wisely and kindly,” answered 
Barbara, trying to evade an irritating discussion. 

“It is a miserable sort of position for Claude,” said Aunt Ju- 
dith, fretfully. 

“ Of course it is not a brilliant position to be secretary in a 
second-rate Swiss pension. But, after all, Madame Martin is kind- 
hearted. And she is stretching a point to serve us in employing 
Claude at all. He is gaining experience which may be of great 
value to him hereafter. He is lodged, fed, and furnished with 
money enough to buy his clothes. When I remember the diffi- 
culty we — you had, you and Uncle William, to find a place for 
him at all, it seems to me that on the whole Claude has been lucky.” 

“ I see. I see very well the line you mean to take. And I do 
say it is hard, Barbara, when I know that William would let 
Claude come home at once if you would but join me in urging it.” 

“Come home! And what is he to do here? How could we 
provide for him? How 7 could we ask Uncle William to take any 
new burden on his heavily laden shoulders?” 

“ Then we are to let the poor boy die without making an effort 
to save him ! Would William wish that ?” 

“ Dear Aunt Judith, you and I are both quite sure of Uncle 
William’s tender goodness. Whatever else we doubt, we can 
neither of us doubt that.” 

Whether intended or not, there was an implied reproach in 
these words, which stung Aunt Judith. She answered sharply, 
“It is not merely a question of goodness, but of judgment. I 
presume you will not maintain that your uncle is infallible !” 

At this moment the sound of a key in the lock of the street- 
door checked her speech. She stopped abruptly. “ Here is Will- 
iam,” she said. At the words Barbara sprang up joyfully, and 
ran into the passage. 

And since in the case of the keenest-eyed and most sympa- 
thetic of us all, a little knowledge of a man’s previous history 
helps us to judge him understandingly, it will be well, before he 
comes forward to speak for himself, to assist the reader in inter- 
preting the present William Hughes by giving a brief summary 
of his past. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


9 


CHAPTER II. 

The Hugheses were tradespeople who, when William was a 
child, had already been established for two generations in a thriving 
YV estern seaport. Hut their Welsh blood enabled some members 
of the family to boast of those “claims of long descent,” which, 
however they may be smiled at by “ the grand old gardener and 
his wife,” are undeniably coveted and valued by many millions of 
their posterity. 

Perhaps it may be due to the more imaginative cast of the 
Celtic mind, as compared with the dull (and often extremely in- 
convenient) English prejudice in favor of proved facts and plain 
truths, that among the Welsh, the Highlanders, and the Irish, the 
happiness afforded by a long genealogy is so very generally dif- 
fused. Their royal and martial progenitors of the dimmest antiq- 
uity live upon the tongue, and in the internal self-satisfaction of 
many a Mac, O’, and Ap, whose neighbor Smith or Dobbs can 
barely set forth the Christian-name of his grandfather. Thus 
Judith Hughes, although her grandfather did keep a shop, was 
not to be balked of her birthright, and would proudly repeat 
that her mother had been an Ap Thomas, and that she thus en- 
joyed the valuable privilege of being pure Welsh by both sides of 
the house. She openly regretted that her patronymic, originally 
Ap Hugh, had been degraded into plain Hughes (which, however, 
she admitted, she preferred to the more usual form, Hugh) by her 
grandfather when he crossed the border of the Principality and 
set up as a bookseller and stationer in the busy mercantile harbor 
of Marypool. And there is no doubt that she had a great deal of 
enjoyment in making speeches of this sort. 

Her brother, David Hughes, deprived his children of that full 
comfort in their pedigree which Judith derived from hers, by 
marrying a young woman named Timmins. But as Harriet 
Hughes, born Timmins, was not only a remarkably pretty, but a 
very gentle, sweet-natured young creature, her warm-hearted 


10 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


sister-in-law soon loved her as tenderly as she could have loved a 
lineal descendant of Glendower, and possibly even a little more. 

The father of David and Judith had given them an excellent 
education — an education greatly superior to that of most of their 
social equals in those days ; and, in the case of the son, the school 
teaching had been followed by wide and intelligent reading. 
David Hughes was a man of unusual abilities, and his abilities 
were of an unusual sort. Had he been free to improve them ac- 
cording to the natural bent of his mind, he would probably have 
attained distinction. His temperament and talents were essen- 
tially artistic. But circumstances so shaped his life as to give 
him but small opportunity for manifesting the faculties that he 
possessed. One loophole towards the light, however, was vouch- 
safed to him. When he inherited the bookseller’s business, which 
his father had conducted successfully, he inherited with it the 
ownership of a small local newspaper, which old Mr. Hughes had 
bought cheap as a speculation. 

The life of this obscure little print had appeared to be almost 
extinct when David Hughes came into possession of it. But its 
flickering existence soon began to revive under his care, and be- 
fore very long flamed up with a light that could not be hidden 
under a bushel. Within a few years it had prospered sufficiently 
to justify him — or so he thought — in abandoning altogether the 
dingy book-shop behind whose counter his father and grandfather 
had stood, and in devoting his fiery energies (which were great) 
and his available capital (which was small) to the improvement 
and diffusion of the Phoenix newspaper. After a while he trans- 
formed it from a weekly to a daily print — a change that ate up 
nearly every penny he had in the world. But he was still little 
past the prime of life, strong and vigorous, and he confidently 
looked forward to the time when he should receive large profits 
from the venture, and when the Phoenix would be a handsome 
property to bequeath to his children. 

He had two daughters and- a son. His wife having died when 
they were still in the nursery, the girls were brought up under the 
care of their Aunt Judith, who had embarked her little patrimony 
in establishing a boarding-school at a fashionable watering-place 
not very far from Marypool. The school prospered exceedingly. 
Miss Hughes could not pretend to the possession of various 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


11 


modern accomplishments, but she had the good sense to secure com- 
petent teachers of them by liberal pay, and her native shrewdness 
was seldom deceived in judging of her subaltern’s qualifications. 

David Hughes’s son William, the youngest of his children, in- 
herited his father’s temperament, refined and developed by a more 
congenial training than his father had ever enjoyed ; and David 
Hughes was resolved that his son’s genius should have due play. 
The young fellow was enthusiastically desirous to become a 
painter, and a painter he should be. At any rate, it should not 
be David’s fault if he were not one. Mr. Hughes had no dislike 
or mistrust of art as a calling in life — a state of mind very rare in 
those days among the class to which he belonged, and not so 
common at the present enlightened epoch as some people may 
fondly suppose. Full of hope and high spirits, the lad entered 
on his chosen career. After some preliminary studies his father 
sent him to Rome, where he lived strictly within his moderate al- 
lowance, worked with enthusiasm, and became a genei'al favorite 
among the cosmopolitan society of young artists whom he met 
there. 

It was a happy time for the whole family. The Phoenix was 
daily rising in reputation; Aunt Judith’s school was flourishing; 
Winifred, the elder of David Hughes’s daughters — a brilliant 
creature, and the idol of her father’s heart — had obtained an ex- 
cellent situation as governess in the family of a fashionable Lon- 
don physician ; and her younger sister, Olive, was engaged to 
marry the son of a wealthy merchant in her native town. This 
last circumstance was considered by all their neighbors as the 
crowning good fortune of the Hugheses. And although David 
did not quite share this feeling, having but a moderately high 
opinion of Arthur Maddison, his daughter’s betrothed, and dislik- 
ing a certain purse-proud air of patronage towards him and his 
which was assumed by the Maddison family generally, yet, since 
his pretty gentle Olive’s heart was set on the marriage, he did not 
oppose it. 

Yes; that was a happy time for the whole family. But one 
morning a letter arrived in Marypool which shattered their fort- 
unes and ruined their lives. 

Winifred Hughes had eloped from her situation in London 
with a married man. 


12 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Pat crudely and briefly, that was the announcement made to 
her father. But the latter was not brief. It was diffuse and in- 
coherent, and, above all, angry — furiously angry; for the writer 
of it was Mrs. Kirby, Winifred’s employer, and the companion of 
Winifred’s flight was Mrs. Kirby’s brother. 

But the blow was not aggravated by Mrs. Kirby’s eloquence. 
When a man is stabbed to the heart, what matter whether the 
weapon be blunt or keen, rusty or shining? Aunt Judith, hastily 
summoned the same day by poor trembling little Olive, found on 
reaching Marypool that her brother had started for London ; and 
upon her fell the bitter task of writing to William. On Olive the 
effect of the news was almost to paralyze thought. She passed 
hour after hour sitting motionless and dry-eyed, with a dumb 
weight of misery oppressing her soul like some monstrous dream. 
Their Winifred — their proud, high-spirited, brilliant Winifred, to 
have plunged into this black abyss of shame and misery ! No ! 
It was incredible — impossible ! 

A considerable time elapsed before the miserable story was, bit 
by bit, made clear to them. Nor could any explanation of how 
it came to pass have given them consolation. In the home where 
Winifred’s name had been a household word, uttered with pro- 
found affection, the chance sound of it came to be like the touch 
of a cruel hand upon a wound. A few words will suffice to tell 
all that need be said of her here. 

Mrs. Kirby’s brother, Christopher Dalton, had married unhap- 
pily, and, when he first met Winifred, had long lived apart from 
his wife. Winifred at first supposed him to be a widower — a 
belief which Mrs. Kirby took no pains to overthrow. She only 
wished it had been well-founded. She regarded her sister-in-law 
with the strongest aversion, and desired that her very existence 
should be ignored or forgotten. Mr. Dalton resided habitually in 
the south of France ; but when Winifred Hughes had been but a 
few months installed as governess to Dr. Kirby’s daughters, Dal- 
ton came, in an evil hour, to England on a visit to his sister. He 
was a cultivated man, far better able to appreciate Miss Hughes’s 
unusually brilliant intelligence and accomplishments than were 
any of the Kirbys. He took the habit of frequenting the school- 
room at first in order to superintend his nieces’ French and Italian 
studies. And so the end came. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


13 


Mr. Hughes, as lias been said, hurried up to London immedi- 
ately after receiving the fatal letter ; and after an interview with 
Dr. Kirby, resolved on starting for the Continent in pursuit of his 
daughter, but the following morning he was found dead in his bed 
at the hotel where he had alighted : killed, the doctors said, by a 
stroke of apoplexy, but, in his sister Judith’s phrase, “dead of a 
broken heart.” 

William, who had set out from Rome in wild haste on receipt 
of his aunt’s letter, arrived to find his father dead, and his sister 
Olive deserted by her lover, who had (in deference to the wishes 
of his family, as he said) broken off his engagement in conse- 
quence of the scandal and disgrace which attached in Marypool 
to the name of Hughes. Blow followed blow. Mr. Hughes’s 
death put an end to all chance of the prosperous future he had 
anticipated for the Phoenix. The position of the paper was not 
yet so assured that it could afford to lose his animating influence, 
his intelligent inspiration. The Phoenix was sold, and scarcely 
fetched more than the original cost of its purchase. This meant 
utter financial ruin to the Hugheses. Their old house was given 
up, the furniture sold, and the afflicted family had to face the 
world with poverty added to their load of sorrow. 

“ But, God be thanked, we owe not a sixpence,” said Aunt 
Judith. “ Everything is paid, and we have my school to fall back 
upon.” 

Alas ! the school proved to be a broken reed. It was ruined 
by the same disaster which had already done so much evil. The 
watering-place where Miss Judith Hughes had established herself 
was so near to Marypool as to be within reach of the gossip that 
was on every tongue there. Various circumstances combined to 
give notoriety to the wretched story. The fact that Olive’s be- 
trothed belonged to a rich and influential mercantile family in 
Marypool caused the breaking-off of her engagement to bo a mat- 
ter of considerable local interest ; and then Mr. Hughes’s sudden 
death in London, and the subsequent inquest, gave the story fresh 
publicity by means of the press. Judith struggled on desperately 
in the teeth of difficulty. Rebuffs met her on every side ; morti- 
fications of all kinds assailed her, and her daily bread was steeped 
in bitterness. It would have been wiser not to attempt the strug- 
gle. Had the good-will of the school been sold without delay, it 


14 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


would probably have brought a fair price. But poor Judith was 
obstinate, and even thought it a point of honor not to give way ; 
so that when she finally yielded to necessity, and withdrew from 
the school, her connection had entirely melted away, and she had 
involved herself in debt. 

All liabilities having been met by the sale of her books and 
furniture, and a tiny sum of ready money remaining in hand, the 
Hugheses resolved, after taking counsel together, to go to London. 
There lay William’s best chance of pursuing his art, and Miss 
Hughes and Olive could earn their bread by teaching. So to 
London they went. 

And now began for William Hughes a life of struggle and self- 
sacrifice, in which he never flinched or faltered for five-and-twenty 
years. He found himself, at little over twenty years old, the sole 
prop and stay of two helpless women, for poor Aunt Judith’s san- 
guine expectation of earning her bread by teaching proved fal- 
lacious for a long time. Only after many years, and after sinking 
her pretensions even lower in the social scale, did she succeed in 
collecting a few day scholars. Olive worked with her needle, and 
taught whenever the opportunity arose. But her earnings were 
precarious, and at the best miserably small. And, moreover, she 
fell into a weak state of health. 

On William’s shoulders alone rested for many a day the burden 
of supporting the family. He refused no occupation by which he 
could earn a little money. He gave lessons not only in drawing, 
but in music and languages, to any one who would employ him. 
He rose before dawn on summer mornings, and tramped miles 
into the country to work at some landscape, that was sold, per- 
haps, after all, for a few shillings. There even came winter days, 
when there was neither food nor fire in the miserable lodging, and 
when, under cover of the dusk, he would go out with his guitar 
into the streets, and sing and play for a few pence, to enable them 
to break their fast. 

That was the time of their deepest poverty. By degrees his 
talent as an artist began to be recognized. He got one or two 
commissions from an obscure but enterprising dealer who was 
bold enough to trust his own judgment of the power and delicacy 
displayed in the landscapes of that unknown man. And, indeed, 
as the prudent dealer reflected in self-justification, the risk was 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


15 


really very small ; for such was the artist’s poverty that he was 
willing to work for little more than the cost of his color and can- 
vas. 

After a while, Olive’s marriage seemed to promise some happi- 
ness to the long-tried family. Her husband was only a clerk em- 
ployed in a great wholesale city house. But he was in receipt of 
a rising salary, was steady and frugal, and Olive was content to 
take him. William made no objection to the marriage; neither 
did Aunt Judith — openly. But in secret she fretted over it and 
disapproved it, and told herself with some bitterness that Olive 
never had had a spark of that spirit which ought to animate the 
descendant of so many Ap Hugheses and Ap Thomases. Olive 
was absurdly meek and humble. Mr. James Copley was a very 
mean and insignificant sort of personage in Aunt Judith’s eyes; 
and she only hoped he had some idea how far Olive’s merits were 
above anything he could justly aspire to! 

However, Olive became Mrs. James Copley ; and although the 
romance of love was over for her, yet she enjoyed domestic peace 
and quiet kindness, and was grateful for them. But misfortune 
had not yet ceased to attend the Hugheses. Before the elder of 
Olive’s two children was ten years old, Mr. and Mrs. Copley died 
within a few weeks of each other, being carried off by an infec- 
tious fever; and the orphans, left almost totally unprovided for, 
were thrown on the care of their uncle and great-aunt. 

Bravely and cheerfully was the charge accepted ; and now on 
that September evening, when we have seen Barbara on her way 
home through the squalid street, she had already for some time 
been contributing no inconsiderable share to the household ex- 
penses; while of Claude enough has been said to explain his po- 
sition and prospects. 

As for William Hughes, he had slowly made for himself a pe- 
culiar reputation among a few connoisseurs in painting. A can- 
vas signed by him bore a considerable value — to the picture- 
dealer to whom, in the days of his direst necessity, he had 
mortgaged his fame and his future. There are, doubtless, liberal 
and generous-hearted picture-dealers; but William Hughes, un- 
fortunate in this as in all other worldly affairs, had not happened 
to fall in with any of them. 

It may be stated at once that Winifred Hughes never returned 


1G 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


to England. She survived only a few years after leaving it, and 
died in the South of France just six months before the death of 
Christopher Dalton’s wife. Dalton himself was understood to 
have emigrated to one of the Western States of America. His 
name was never heard in the Hughes family. Only once, soon 
after the breaking-up of their home, and their removal to London, 
a communication from France was received by William. Aunt 
Judith discovered that it had contained money. What else it 
contained she could but vaguely guess at; for the receipt of it 
threw William into such a frenzy of grief and indignation that 
his health was for a long time seriously affected, and Judith dared 
not allude to the subject. During many years afterwards she 
lived in dread of a chance meeting between her nephew and 
Dalton, for she believed that William could kill him if they met. 
But no such meeting ever came to pass ; and when the letter and 
its contents had been returned to the sender, silence, though not 
oblivion, covered the names of Dalton and of Winifred in the 
household of Winifred’s kindred. 

The younger ones, Barbara and Claude, naturally remained 
ignorant of their Aunt Winifred’s story. A chance word had re- 
vealed to Barbara that her mother had once had a sister. And 
she never forgot the white misery in her mother’s face as she said 
hurriedly, in answer to the child’s innocent questioning, “ Hush ! 
She is dead. Never speak of her to your Uncle William. It 
hurts him too much to remember her.” Thenceforward Barbara 
was silent on that score. Nothing could more effectually have 
checked her than the dread of hurting Uncle William. From her 
earliest years Barbara had adored her uncle. The closest sym- 
pathy existed between them ; and it often seemed as though the 
child were striving to make amends to him for some dimly ap- 
prehended loss or sorrow in his life, by lavishing on him the ten- 
derness of her deeply affectionate nature. 

This was the more remarkable, because, during all her remem- 
brances of him, a more cheerful-mannered creature than William 
Hughes did not exist. Full of quaint wit, and with that keen, 
hearty, and enjoying sense of the humorous which is one of 
Heaven’s best gifts to mortal man, he presented so unruffled a 
front to the world in general that a certain class of persons were 
absolutely provoked by such unreasonably good spirits; and a 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


17 


lodging-house landlady had been known to say, disparagingly, that 
’twasn’t much odds to Mr. Hughes what happened ; he’d have 
his joke and make hisself comfortable, let things be as they would, 
and that you might depend on ! For the suspicion that there are 
sacred feelings which you purposely conceal from them is exas- 
perating to some minds. And the daws naturally hold that the 
proper place to wear your heart is on your sleeve. 

But all this while we have kept Mr. William Hughes standing 
in the passage ! 


CHAPTER III. 

The person whom Barbara had run to greet on his entrance 
was a man so encumbered with portable baggage that it was diffi- 
cult to discern much of his figure, while his face was overshad- 
owed by a wide-flapped felt hat. He carried a portfolio under 
one arm, a camp-stool under the other, a knapsack at his back, 
and a worn shepherd’s plaid hung folded across his shoulder. 

“ Oh, Uncle William, dear,” cried Barbara, “how you are laden !” 
And then she proceeded eagerly to relieve him of some of his 
packages. Larcher had come up from the kitchen at the sound 
of Mr. Hughes’s arrival, and added the light of a very attenuated 
tallow candle to that of the small petroleum lamp, with a tin re- 
flector, fixed against the wall. 

And now, having removed his wide-brimmed hat, Mr. William 
Hughes stands before us, sufficiently illuminated to enable us to 
see his outward aspect. 

It is that of a man about midway between forty and fifty ; 
rather short and square-built, with small but strong and nervous 
hands and spatula-shaped finger-tips. A certain expression of 
suffering is given to his whole person by the shoulders being al- 
ways a little raised, as if with an effort, and the head somewhat 
sunk between them. This attitude is due to his habitually and 
instinctively lifting the shoulders to assist his labored breathing 
during the severe asthmatic attacks to which he is subject. 

So much for the figure. The face is a striking one. There is 
a considerable resemblance in it to his Aunt Judith’s — notably 
2 


18 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


in the strongly marked eyebrows and fine dark eyes. But every 
trait of Miss Hughes’s countenance is exaggerated and accentuated 
in his, so as to give the impression of a remarkably vigorous and 
masculine character. The nose is well-shaped enough, but some- 
what thick; the chin boldly curved; the mouth a little down- 
drawn at the corners. The coloring of the skin, eyes, and eye- 
brows, and of the closely cropped hair surmounting a square and 
massive forehead, is as dark as that of a Spaniard. 

Altogether, one would say, a sad, saturnine face. But wait un- 
til he speaks or smiles ! The change is as great as when, upon 
the rugged shoulder of some granite mountain in the gray dis- 
tance, a ray of sunset falls aslant, revealing unsuspected streaks 
of soft green meadow and human dwellings, with a ruby gleam in 
their western windows. 

And yet a suggestion of sadness always lingers in that face. 
Even when the play of humor lights it up, the smiling mouth and 
eyes never quite overpower a certain plaintive expression due to a 
quaint trick of the eyebrows, which seem to make a half-aston- 
ished protest against the jest. It is an expression which may 
sometimes be seen on the face of a little child. 

When William had gone up to his own room to wash off the 
dust of his journey, and Larcher was frying a dish of eggs and 
bacon for the family supper, Miss Judith hurriedly whispered to 
Barbara, “ Don’t say anything yet about Claude. We must choose 
a good moment.” 

“ All moments are good with Uncle William,” returned Barbara. 

“ H’m, child, your uncle is the best of men, but he is a man. 
Suppose we wait until he has lighted his pipe?” 

“ Well, in that case, he will at least be allowed to eat his sup- 
per in peace before being worried !” thought Barbara. But she 
did not say so. 

William had been staying for a fortnight at Purfleet, in order 
to finish a picture for which he had made studies early in the 
summer; and when he came down to the parlor he had various 
items of news to ask and to give. 

How was Aunt Judith? Had all been going well at home? 
Barbara still giving holiday lessons at the Needhams’ ? As for 
himself, he was famous ; famous ! Oh, that touch of cough was 
nothing. Merely a reminder of the existence of his old enemy. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


19 


But, on the whole, he had been wonderfully free from asthma at 
Purfleet. 

“And the picture, Uncle William?” ashed Barbara. “Have 
you been able to work well ?” 

“Yes, yes; you will see to-morrow. There are wonderfully 
delicate effects of color in that wide view across the river. I had 
capital weather, too ; the three last afternoons, particularly, were 
delightful — just the soft, misty effects that I wanted for my dis- 
tance. I really was in wonderful luck.” 

“I think we have all been in good luck during these holidays,” 
said Judith. “I declare we are getting quite rich.” 

“Are we?” exclaimed William, in some surprise; for Aunt Ju- 
dith’s views of the present were seldom so rose-colored. 

But she was eager now to dwell on the bright side of their pros- 
pects, and to suggest inferentially that, having one more person to 
feed at home, would be but a trifling matter. She was not con- 
sciously laying an artful plan. Many of our motives work in the 
dark like moles ; and we should often be unfeignedly surprised to 
behold their ugliness suddenly illuminated. 

“Oh yes; quite rich!” repeated Aunt Judith. “It is a bless- 
ing to think you need not pinch, and slave, and deprive yourself 
of every little comfort now, William.” 

“I? But, my dear, I always have everything I want!” 

He said it with the most simple earnestness, looking at her with 
grave, wide-opened eyes. 

Somehow, Aunt Judith’s eyes fell before his, and her cheeks 
grew hot. Sundry passages in that letter from Switzerland (pas- 
sages which she had not read to Barbara) seemed to tingle through 
her consciousness. But she rallied after a moment and went on : 
“ I have two more day scholars promised for next term. And then 
Barbara has some new pupils — she goes to them three times a 
week to teach music and drawing; she had only just come hojne 
from giving her lesson there before you arrived — very good peo- 
ple, and very good pay !” proceeded Aunt Judith, warming with 
her subject, and winding up triumphantly. 

“ Why, Barbara, how is this? El Dorado’s opening to you on 
every side, and you never wrote me a word on the subject !” 

“ I wanted it to be a pleasant surprise for you when you came 
home, Uncle William.” 


20 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“Oh, dear me, yes; so she did!” cried Judith; “and I ought 
not to have spoken, for Barbara had set her heart on telling you 
herself ! But, you know, I never can hoard up what is in my 
mind — out it must come. Mv mother used to tell me that her 

J 

grandfather, Morgan Ap Richard, was called by a nickname signi- 
fying ‘ The-impetuous- flash -that-lights-up-the-dark-secret-of-the- 
cloud.’ I forget what it is in Welsh.” 

“Are you ready for your pipe yet, Uncle William?” asked 
Barbara, quietly; and at the words Aunt Judith’s cheeks flushed 
hotly once more ; and she slipped her hand into her pocket and 
took hold of Claude’s letter. 

Barbara helped the servant to carry the plates and dishes down 
into the kitchen, and then, having returned to the parlor, she 
washed up the teacups, and arranged them in the corner cup- 
board; while Miss Judith sat nervously awaiting her opportu- 
nity, with the letter from Switzerland held between thumb and 
finger, and William, from behind a soothing cloud of tobacco- 
smoke, watched his niece’s quiet, graceful movements with an 
artist’s appreciation. 

During the performance of these humble household tasks, Bar- 
bara chatted to her uncle about the family of her new pupils. 
Yes, they really were pleasant, well-educated persons. She had 
been recommended to them by William’s friend, Herr Rosenheim, 
the violinist. The mother of the familv, a Mrs. Kettering:, was a 
German bv birth ; and that was how Herr Rosenheim had come to 
know them. “ And is it not an odd coincidence, Uncle William,” 
said Barbara, “ that they should have connections in your part of 
the world ? Mrs. Kettering told me that her brother, who lives in 
Hamburg, had married a lady from Marypool.” 

“ Indeed !” said William, in a constrained voice. Even after 
all these years, the unexpected mention of his old home gave him 
a little jarring shock. And he never willingly spoke of the place 
himself. 

“ What was her name ? Did they tell you her name, Barbara ?” 
asked Judith, more curious and less sensitive than her nephew. 

“ Maddison was her name. Mrs. Kettering told me that the 
Maddisons were among the foremost merchants of Marypool. 
Did you ever hear of them ?” 

“ Why, that must be Gussy !” exclaimed Aunt Judith, clasping 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


21 


her hands. “ Don’t you remember, William, that Augusta Mad- 
dison married in Germany ?” 

Something in the expression of her uncle’s face checked any 
further questioning on Barbara’s part. Perhaps these Maddisons 
had been connected in some way with Aunt Winifred, whose 
name her mother had warned her never to mention. But Ju- 
dith’s thoughts had rushed back to the old days, and, after the 
manner of her ancestor, the impetuous Morgan ap Richard, she 
procoeded to light up the darkness of the past by a series of zig- 
zag flashes. 

“ Only imagine this Mrs. Kettering being Augusta Maddison’s 
sister-in-law ! I should like to know what Gussy’s feelings would 
be if she knew that our poor dear Olive’s daughter was teaching 
her nieces in order to earn her bread ! Not that Augusta was the 
worst. I never thought that, even in the bitterest time. I always 
thought that Augusta had a heart, if it could have been allowed 
fair play. But as for Arthur — I wonder what has become of 
him ? Did you ever hear Mrs. Kettering speak of Arthur Maddi- 
son, child?” 

Barbara glanced quickly at her uncle, and then shook her head. 

“No, no, Aunt Judith. It was a mere chance word about Ma- 
rypool.” 

Barbara resolutely refrained from asking any questions. Nev- 
ertheless, it must be owned that she felt considerable curiosity on 
the subject of the Maddisons of Marypool. And her curiosity 
was whetted by Miss Judith Hughes pursing her mouth up, nod- 
ding solemnly, and saying in a low voice, “Aye; but it might 
interest you more than you can imagine.” 

“Come, come, Aunt Judith,” said William, taking his pipe 
from between his lips and smiling kindly on his niece, “ don’t let 
Barbara fancy this is a Bluebeard’s closet. After all, there is no 
reason why she should not be told that once upon a time — years 
and years ago, of course — her mother was engaged to marry Ar- 
thur Maddison. Circumstances divided them. Your dear mother 
had no blame in the matter. Nor,” he added, slowly, “ ought we 
to blame Arthur too harshly.” 

“ Not blame !” burst out Judith. “ Not blame Arthur Maddi- 
son ! Of all the poor, mean-spirited, cold-hearted, false — ” 

“ No,” interrupted William, laying his hand, palm downwards, 


22 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


on the table, and leaning a little forward. “ No, no ; not false. 
Weak, perhaps. Bat we have no right to expect heroes. Why 
needlessly embitter our thoughts about any one? God knows 
there is enough bitterness and wrath that we cannot put from us.” 

Aunt Judith shrank back into the shadow, and was silent. 

After a brief pause Barbara said, cheerfully, “ Well, dear Uncle 
William, at all events there can be no bitterness in my thoughts 
about that past and gone story. Mrs. Kettering probably knows 
nothing about it. And, if she does, she is not likely to connect 
Miss Copley, the governess, with the rich Maddisons of Maryport. 
And of course I do not gossip to her about my relations. She 
expects me to employ my time in a different manner, I assure 
you.” 

She felt, with a delicate intuition, that her uncle would shrink 
sensitively from the thought that strangers were canvassing the 
family history with his niece ; and she desired to reassure him, so 
far as she was concerned. 

Barbara’s own knowledge of that family history was very in- 
complete. She had heard, in a fragmentary way, of her grand- 
father’s terribly sudden death ; of the loss of money which fol- 
lowed upon that disaster; and of the long struggle with poverty 
and difficulties of many kinds which had been so gallantly main- 
tained by Judith and William Hughes. Of course she had heard, 
too, from Aunt Judith of the glories of the school at Westbeach. 
As she grew to womanhood, the conviction gradually forced itself 
upon her mind that some cloud darker than sorrow rested on the 
memory of that dead Aunt Winifred, whose name was never heard 
among them. And now, to-night, there came this revelation about 
his mother’s youth. JIow much sorrow there had been ! What 
suffering and misfortune ! 

And yet how tenderly had she and her brother been sheltered 
from the sharp winds of the world ! Her memory recalled a hun- 
dred traits of the unselfish love and gentleness which had made 
her childhood happy — quiet sacrifices accepted then as mere mat- 
ters of course, but understood and valued more and more with 
every advancing year. Her heart swelled with love and compas- 
sion and gratitude in thinking of it all. 

“ Ah, dear me !” sighed Aunt Judith, all at once. “ Ah — h h ! 

Poor Claude ! Poor dear boy !” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


23 


Barbara almost started. It was not Claude whom she had been 
pitying. William, too, looked up hastily, as if he had been awak- 
ened from a lit of meditation. “ What of Claude, Aunt Judith?” 
he asked. “ Is there anything amiss?” 

“ Very much, so I’m afraid,” returned Aunt Judith, with another 
long-drawn sigh and a shake of the head, and in that way she 
commenced her attack. 

William listened patiently as she set forth her case, but she felt 
sure that he was not in sympathy with her view of it; and this 
knowledge, coupled, perhaps, with some uneasy prickings of con- 
science, irritated her, and led her to make sundry excuses which, 
as the French proverb has it, are tantamount to accusations. What 
if the dear fellow were weary of his life at Madame Martin’s? That, 
surely, was natural enough ! And depression of spirits would 
make him more susceptible to the dampness of the climate. No; 
he certainly did not appear to have sent for a doctor ; nor to have 
complained to Madame Martin. But a young man of his age 
would endure a good deal rather than make a fuss about his own 
health. Well, and if he did complain to his own Aunt Judith! 
To whom should he carry his troubles if not to her who had stood 
in a mother’s place to him ever since he was seven years old, poor 
orphan lamb? 

“My dear old aunty,” said William, “you have stood in a 
mother’s place to us all. But that, surely, is a reason for sparing 
you trouble, not for bringing it to you !” 

Here Aunt Judith, seeing an opportunity, rushed at it with 
ardor. 

“Oh, if you’re thinking of that , William, I can assure you on 
my solemn word and faith that there can be no trouble so hard to 
me as to think of a boy lonely and sick, and among uncongenial 
people, and longing to get home. And as things are going at 
present, I am sure we all could afford to have the dear fellow here 
for a few weeks, until he gets stronger; and we could look about 
for some other employment for him. And how on earth you ” — 
turning particularly upon Barbara, who all this time had not said 
a word, but was diligently mending a pile of the family linen — 
“how you can sit there listening in that cold way, and not speak 
a word for your own, only brother, I am unable to conceive ! One 
might fancy you had not a drop of our blood in your veins.” 


24 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“I think, Aunt Judith, it might be a good thing to get the 
opinion of some competent physician at Yevey as to whether the 
place suits Claude or not,” answered Barbara, gently. 

“ Certainly,” said William, with an emphatic nod. “ That must 
be done, at any rate.” 

Aunt Judith started up in a pet. 

“Physician’s opinion! Diddle, faddle ! Ask a Vevey doctor 
if Vevey is a healthy place, and what do you suppose he is likely 
to say ? Besides, it wouldn’t matter to me what he said. The 
poor boy knows his own feelings better than any one else !” And 
she marched out of the room, and down-stairs into the kitchen, 
where she would relieve her feelings by talking to Larcher about 
“ Master Claude.” For Larcher had been in service with the 
Hughes family as a fresh-cheeked country lass of sixteen ; when 
Miss Judith had been reckoned one of the handsomest young 
women in Mary pool, and was courted and flattered by a score of 
admirers. 

William Hughes and his niece sat silent for some minutes after 
Judith had left the room. At length William removed his pipe 
from his mouth, and, gazing into the fire with a half-sad, half- 
humorous smile, said : “ Poor dear Aunt Judith ! How fond she 
is of the boy !” 

The example of long-suffering toleration is by no means gener- 
ally contagious. Indeed, to the young it is often exasperating. 
They cannot bear that an offender should escape. They are keen 
for justice, and untroubled by any doubt of their own ability to 
decide what it is! Barbara did wish for a moment that Uncle 
William would plainly show Aunt Judith how unreasonable she 
was, and how others besides Claude had claims on her considera- 
tion. But it was only for a moment. 

She rose up, and, standing behind her uncle’s chair, put her hand 
tenderly on his shoulder. 

“ What do you think you shall do, uncle dear ?” she asked. 

William took the slender, fair hand in his own brown and 
strongly marked one, and remained so, still gazing into the fire, 
as he answered: “Well, my dear, I was thinking the best place 
might be for me to go to Yevey, and see how things are. Hop- 
kins spoke to me about a little commission for some Swiss views. 
A small matter, I believe — panels for decorative purposes. But I 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


25 


should be glad of it, of course. I must look him up. Young 
Hopkins (with an unquestionable gleam of fun in his eyes) has 
invited me to his lodgings. If his father gives me that commis- 
sion he talked of, I shall certainly go to Yevey. We must try to 
make Aunt Judith happy — poor, dear soul !” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Immediately to the westward of the Gray’s Inn Road lies one 
of those districts — not rare in London — which are compendiously 
described as having seen better days. The better days of the 
district particularly in question just now can never have been of 
the palatial kind. Even the civic grandeur and spaciousness of 
Russell Square are far more imposing. But Gentility dwelt here 
in the times when that word was not yet so degraded and rubbed 
down as to be blurred and meaningless — like a current coin de- 
based by manifold coarse handlings. 

No country gentlefolks of fortune spend the season in that 
neighborhood nowadays. No town-bred lady of fashion illumines 
it by her beauty or enlivens it by her airs and graces. But beauty 
is to be found there nevertheless; and even airs and graces may 
still be discovered by a competent observer behind its smoke-be- 
grimed bricks and mortar; for Belgravia and Tyburnia, May Fair 
and South Kensington, have no monopoly of pretty faces, and 
vanity is a hardy plant that thrives in all latitudes. Indeed, as to 
this latter quality, it appears positively to enjoy what may be fig- 
uratively termed a severe climate and a poor soil ; and flourishes 
with amazing vigor where neither talents, graces, nor virtues can 
contrive to grow at all. 

The association of ideas which connects this reflection with the 
tea-party to which William Hughes has been bidden will perhaps 
appear in the sequel. But, at any rate, the mention of the local- 
ity must be allowed to be relevant to that entertainment, since it 
was to be held there. The giver of the party was Mr. Mortimer 
Hopkins, son of the man from whom William Hughes was ex- 
pecting a commission, and with whom a mere chance had quite 


20 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


recently made him acquainted. The chief business carried on by 
Hopkins senior was that of a carver and gilder ; but he had lately 
commenced picture-dealing on a small scale, and was gradually 
extending his connection. But, having but an uncertain hold on, 
and a still more uncertain faith in, the fine arts as a paying in- 
vestment, he thought himself lucky in having obtained for his 
son the post of clerk in a respectable tea-broker’s house in the city. 

Mr. Mortimer Hopkins himself was at bottom very much of his 
father’s opinion. But it pleased him, in his leisure moments, to 
disdain the tea-broker, and to affect the company of some kindred 
spirits who talked about art with the biggest of capital letters — 
and, sometimes, in moments of great enthusiasm, even with a su- 
perfluous aspirate. They formed a little society for mutual admi- 
ration, whose sayings and doings were simply a caricature of the 
sayings and doings of some far more genteel and cultivated cote- 
ries, cemented by a similar fellow-feeling. 

The valid objection to such societies is that they do not and 
cannot limit themselves to admiration. Honest admiration (even 
of each other) might comprise some humility and generosity. 
But the real quintessence of your mutual-admiration coterie is the 
detraction of all the outsiders who do not belong to it. When 
Armande, in the “Femmes Savantes,” formulates that delightful 
rule that no one, save themselves and their friends, shall possess 
any wit, she — to borrow George Eliot’s admirable illustration of 
another subject — pinches a vast cobweb of fine theories into a 
practical maxim of pillular smallness. 

When William Hughes, on the Wednesday following that Sat- 
urday on which we first made his acquaintance, alighted from the 
top of an omnibus in the Gray’s Inn Road, he betook himself to 
a street which may be designated in these pages as Anson Street. 
It was a short street leading out of a square, and, although so near 
to one of the main arteries of traffic, was comparatively quiet. 
Vehicles seldom disturbed it, and, except twice a day — in the 
morning and the evening — the pedestrians who passed between 
the posts set up (for some inscrutable reason) at either end of its 
pavements were few and far between. The street, short as it was, 
contained two boarding-houses, and nearly every house in it ac- 
commodated weekly lodgers — chiefly single men, who went out 
to their business betimes, and did not return until evening. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


27 


It was now nearly eight o’clock, and the returning tide of lodg- 
ers and boarders had long flowed in. The air had turned chilly 
after sunset, and a dry, bleak wind was beginning to whirl the 
dust into eddies, to flutter women’s skirts, and to threaten men’s 
hats as they turned a corner, and to send morsels of paper, frag- 
ments of straw, and all the nameless litter of the pavement hop- 
ping and leaping as if in a sudden panic, which subsided as sud- 
denly as it had arisen, and left one’s nose and eyes unpleasantly 
conscious of a general arid grittiness. In the case of William 
Hughes, moreover, the harsh wind caused a somewhat severe fit 
of coughing, which arrested his progress and made him lean for a 
few minutes against some area railings to recover his breath. 

As he so stood, a cab drove up to the door of a house a few 
yards farther on, and from it alighted four individuals, two of 
whom wore ordinary attire, while the other two were muffled in 
cloaks, but not so completely as to conceal the fact that the gar- 
ments beneath the cloaks were not at all of the every-day sort. 
The foremost, who ran quickly up the steps on alighting, had his 
head covered by a crimson velvet skull-cap laced with gold, and 
with a long silken tassel depending from its centre and hanging 
down near to his shoulder. This much was plainly visible by the 
light of a street lamp which happened to stand immediately oppo- 
site the house in question. When the four men had entered, and 
the door was shut again, the cabman still stood at the bottom of 
the steps with his fare in his hand, and a puzzled expression on 
his countenance. But Mr. Hughes having by that time come up, 
and happening to meet his eye, that expression changed to a broad 
grin, and, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, and apparently con- 
vinced that he was speaking to a sympathetic listener, the driver 
opined audibly that that was as rummy a lot as ever he drove — if 
not rummier ! 

William’s face was full of quiet but intense amusement, for 
this was the very house of the tea-party. 

“ By George, it wasn’t a joke, then, his writing in the corner of 
his note ‘ Fancy Dress !’ ” 

Thus ran Mr. Hughes’s private reflections as he waited for the 
door to be opened. And while he was depositing his hat and the 
worn shepherd’s plaid on a chair in the passage, his eyes sparkled 
with humorous enjoyment. The servant-of-all-work, after glanc- 


28 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


ing at him in some disappointment (as he was quick to perceive) 
by reason of the humdrum and commonplace fashion of his 
clothes, briefly remarked that if it was Mr. Mortimer ’Opkins he 
wanted, that gentleman would be found in the droring-room front, 
withdrew and left him to go up-stairs alone. 

He knocked with his knuckles at the door of the drawing-room 
front, but the talking within deadened the sound ; so he turned 
the handle and walked in without further ceremony. 

It was a fair-sized room, and decently furnished ; the only no- 
ticeable circumstance in that respect being the unusual abundance 
of easy-chairs, lounges, and cushions. But these articles of lux- 
ury were clearly the property of the lodger, and not of the lodg- 
ing-house keeper ; for all the rest of the furniture was calculated 
to foster self-denial and a Spartan view of life. Tea and coffee 
were laid out on a large table, which also bore a liberal supply of 
thin bread and butter, cakes, and jam. A good fire burned in the 
grate, and a small swing kettle, set down just within the fender, 
steamed and bubbled over a spirit-lamp. 

So far, all was commonplace enough. But the assembled com- 
pany presented some more unusual features to the average be- 
holder. 

To begin with the host : he was a sickly-looking young man of 
three-and-twenty, with a countenance of the kind popularly de- 
scribed as sheep-faced. That is to say, his profile formed one un- 
broken and retreating line from the tip of his nose to the top of 
his forehead, which latter was rather flat and poor, and surmount- 
ed by a not very abundant head of hair, light brown in color, and 
artificially curled by the hairdresser’s tongs. Mr. Mortimer Hop- 
kins was considered by his friends, in virtue of the profile before- 
mentioned, to be of an Athenian type of beauty, and was, indeed, 
often spoken of among them, with the utmost gravity, as an Early 
Greek youth. On the present occasion he was dressed in a non- 
descript costume, of which the lower part was a pair of baggy 
Turkish trousers, and the upper, something between a classical 
tunic and a smoking-jacket, cut very open at the neck so as to 
reveal the whole of a long and scraggy throat. The color of these 
garments was deep blue, and the material soft woollen. 

This Early Greek youth reclined in a Late English arm-chair, in 
such an attitude as to present his profile to the spectator. Between 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


20 


him and the fire sat a singular-looking man, tall and thin, with 
long, straggling hair, and staring blue eyes. He was dressed in a 
complete suit of black velveteen, and wore a rose-colored silk 
handkerchief tied in a bow at his throat. 

On the other side of the host was seated, with his elbow on the 
table, his forefinger on his forehead, and his legs stretched out 
and crossed before him, a middle-aged person with a big bald 
forehead, a pointed beard, and moustache. This gentleman’s atti- 
tude, as well as his fashion of trimming the hair on his face, at 
once suggested the model he aimed at resembling; but the mat- 
ter was put beyond a doubt by his costume, which consisted of a 
reddish-brown doublet and full knickerbocker breeches, crimson 
stockings, shoes with latcliets, and a wide, falling collar, tied with 
a cord and tassel. 

He was quite as resolute in maintaining a correctly picturesque 
posture as the Early Greek youth himself. And the conversation 
between them languished somewhat in consequence. Since two 
gentlemen side by side in the pillory could scarcely have been 
more constrained in their movements or less — apparently — able to 
look each other in the face. The man in velveteen, however, be- 
ing untrammelled in his attitude by any particular ideal, held 
forth in a lively manner with much gesticulation and tossing back 
of his hair. The only other persons present were the young man 
in the crimson skull-cap, who now stood revealed in full Albanian 
costume, and a second young man in an ordinary mourning suit, 
but distinguished from the common herd by wearing a group of 
very large Michaelmas daisies in his buttonhole. 

These two appeared to fulfil the function of audience, almost 
unassisted ; for the Early Greek and Elizabethan Englishman 
were not able to bestow much attention on each other, as has 
been explained. While, as for the velveteen gentleman, al- 
though his talking was fervid enough, his listening was distinctly 
tepid. 

To these William Hughes on his entrance was presented by the 
host, who named them, and pointed them out with his hand and 
great play of profile. 

“Mr. Hughes, Mr. Coney” (motioning towards the man in 
knickerbockers and falling collar). “Mr. Snagge ” (man in the 
velveteen suit). “ Mr. Toller and Mr. Green” (Albanian, and 


30 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


wearer of tbe Michaelmas daisies). “ We have had two or three 
disappointments, I’m sorry to say.” 

William Hughes shook hands with each member of the com- 
pany, and then apologized gravely for his attire. 

“ Oh, don’t name it,” returned Mr. Mortimer Hopkins, with 
much affability. “ I — in short, I only put ‘Fancy Dress’ on my 
invitation because, on an occasion like the present, a gathering of 
a few choice spirits above the ordinary, some of my friends like 
to get rid of the costoom of the present day, so entirely revolting 
to the principles of ’igh Art.” 

“Year, year!” murmured the Albanian, who was obviously re- 
lieved by having his appearance so creditably accounted for. 

“ Oh, dear, yes ; it’s capital fun dressing-up,” said Mr. Hughes, 
sitting down and smiling amiably round the room. “ I remember 
when I used to enjoy it myself immensely.” 

Mortimer Hopkins looked rather blank for a moment at this 
reply, which was not at all what he expected. But recovering 
himself presently, he whispered to Mr. Coney that the new-comer 
was an artist of ability in his way, but had a mechanical sort of 
mind, and rather wanted poetry. 

So mechanical was Hughes’s mind that he at once drew young 
Hopkins aside to ask if there was any chance of his father’s com- 
ing there that evening, as he wished to speak with him on a mat- 
ter of business. Mortimer Hopkins did not hold out much hope 
of his father’s appearing; such feasts of tea, even when combined 
with flows of aesthetic soul, not being much in that gentleman’s 
line. 

“But,” added the young man, “if it’s anything about that 
series of Swiss views, I think I can undertake to say that my 
father has seen the party, and it will be all right.” 

This news was most welcome to William Hughes, and, being 
thus encouraged, he prepared himself thoroughly to enjoy the 
evening. 

When the tea had been drunk, and all the sweet things on the 
table eaten up with great relish, cigars and pipes were lighted, and 
most of the company drew their chairs round the fire, while Morti- 
mer Hopkins gave some orders to the servant before she carried 
away the tea-tray. Finding himself after this close to William 
Hughes, who had not yet seated himself, Hopkins took occasion 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


31 


to give the latter some particulars about his fellow-guests, begin- 
ning with Mr. Snagge. 

This gentleman he described as a genius by nature, and a painter 
by profession. 

“ At least,” he said, correcting himself, “ he don’t get his living 
by it, you know. His father was — well, I believe, he was in the 
linen-drapery line in the Midland Counties, and much respected. 
Name’s over the place of business to this day. There were sev- 
eral in family, but Snagge there got a small independency for his 
share, which enabled him to devote himself to Art. He lives in 
Italy, you know.” 

“ Really 1” 

“ Oh yes. No half-measures ! Went and took a studio near 
Florence, and — and lives there.” (Mr. Hopkins appeared to ex- 
pect that this announcement should greatly impress his hearer.) 
“ There’s something altogether uncommon about Snagge.” 

William Hughes glanced at Mr. Snagge, who, not wholly uncon- 
scious that he was being discussed, tossed his hair back with a cer- 
tain peculiar jerk of the head and elevation of the chin, while his 
eyes were raised to the ceiling, in a fine frenzy rolling. 

“Decidedly uncommon,” assented William Hughes. 

“ He has invented a new system of coloring, sir,” said Hopkins, 
watching his hearer with the corner of his eye. “ It gives a pecul- 
iarly rich tone. In fact, he is familiarly called among a certain 
set of us ‘ T. Y.,’ which stands for Titian the Younger. He’s only 
in England for a short time on a little matter of business; so 
you’ve just nicked it, haven’t you ? — I mean as to making his ac- 
quaintance, you know.” 

William Hughes protested warmly that he would not have 
missed meeting Mr. Snagge, otherwise the Younger Titian, on any 
account. 

“ His friend, too, Mr. Coney, is a remarkable man. Do you 
notice any likeness. Does he remind you of any well-known 
face ? ” 

“The Swan of Avon,” returned William, slowly and with pro- 
found solemnity. 

“ That’s it, sir. Marvellous resemblance. And — what is most 
extraordinary — he was born within five-and-thirty miles of Strat- 
ford-on-Avon.” 


32 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ You don’t say so !” 

“ Fact, I assure you.” 

“And is Mr. Coney also a painter?” 

“ Oh no, no ! lie — in fact, he travels at present in hardware 
for a Sheffield firm. But he has seen an immense deal of the 
world — been in the United States, and, in fact, pretty well every- 
where. He’s a wonderful Shakespearian student, wonderful ! — has 
lectured on the Immortal Bard, in character, for several charita- 
ble institutions in the provinces; great friend of Percival Snagge ; 
known each other from boyhood. But won’t you come near the 
fire ?” 

“ Thank you. One moment. Those two young gentlemen 
standing side by side — ” 

“ Oh ! Toller (the one in the crimson skull-cap) and Green ? 
They are both engaged in a Greek merchant’s house in the city ; 
but they are devoted to Art and the ’igher culture. Green has 
written some very fine poems ; and ” (dropping his voice to a 
deep, emphatic whisper) “ one of ''em has been printed. Do come 
near the fire.” 

In order that the rest of the company should be under no dis- 
advantage with respect to the stranger, or, possibly, to justify his 
introduction among them of so very shabby and undistinguished 
a figure, Mortimer Hopkins took occasion to mention that Mr. 
William Hughes had had a picture exhibited and sold in the 
Academy last season. This announcement appeared considerably 
to impress Messieurs Green and Toller; but it was not so well re- 
ceived by the Younger Titian, who nourished deep-seated sus- 
picions of a man whose pictures were bought and paid for, as 
being probably of a low order of mind. And although somewhat 
appeased on learning that Mr. William Hughes was not a figure 
painter, he maintained a rather reserved and supercilious attitude 
towards him to the end of the evening. Since, however, William 
Hughes by no means resented this mistrustful loftiness, but, on 
the contrary, privately enjoyed it as an excellent joke, the general 
harmony was not in the least impaired. 

The host now set himself (as he whispered behind his hand to 
Hughes) to “draw out” the gifted persons assembled round his 
hearth. One and all desiring and expecting to be so drawn, the 
only difficulty in the matter was to moderate the flow- of genius, 






THAT WILD WHEEL. 


33 


and to tap — so to speak — each vintage in due rotation and with 
impartial fairness. 

One after the other the company was favored with an exposi- 
tion of his peculiar and Titianesque system of coloring by Mr. 
Percival Snagge ; the principal soliloquies of Hamlet by Mr. 
Coney ; and the recitation of two original poems by Mr. Green, 
which were, Mr. Hopkins remarked, “ quite in Swinburne’s best 
manner.” 

Then followed a general discussion on Modern Art and Litera- 
ture. These, it appeared, were in a deplorable condition, and 
would, in fact, be ruined outright but for the existence of some 
select minds, who made a point of despising everything that the 
world in general admired, and of admiring everything which the 
world in general persisted in considering as a bore. The select 
minds had a virulent hostility against the Amusing; and upheld 
the Dismal Interest under every manifestation of human tedious- 
ness. And this was by no means because the select minds had no 
power of being amusing if they tried. Not at all ! It was from 
devotion to a lofty ideal of Art. Nothing, it was agreed, was 
easier than to divert one’s fellow-creatures. And if the select 
minds did not paint attractive pictures, compose melodious music, 
and write books full of sparkling humor, you were expressly re- 
quired to understand that it was because they ivouldn’t. So ab- 
sorbed and delighted was William Hughes in listening to these 
views that he did not hear the door open, and was surprised when 
Mr. Hopkins, senior, appeared unexpectedly in the room, to give 
a new turn to the conversation. 


CHAPTER V. 

“Evenin’, gents,” was Mr. Hopkins’s compendious salutation 
to the company. 

There was a curious likeness in unlikeness between him and his 
son. Hopkins, senior, had the same retreating forehead and 
sloping nose, but the jaw was much more marked and powerful 
in his case ; and the face had a general expression of determina- 
tion mixed with cunning, 

3 


34 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Mr. John Hopkins was a very ignorant man, and he was never 
backward in acknowledging it. Indeed, the vanity of most of us 
being apt to lean towards the weak side, like a mother’s partiality 
for her crippled child, Mr. John Hopkins sometimes displayed an 
aggressive pride in his ignorance. He made it, moreover, a theme 
of self-glorification that, whereas there were men of learning and 
accomplishments who couldn’t earn their salt — he knew where to 
put his hand on half a score of ’em — there stood he, John Hop- 
kins, early left an orphan to tumble up as he could without any 
education at all, at the head of an improving business, and owing 
no man a fi’-pun’ note! 

He had married a woman of very superior connections to his 
own ; but she had died long ago, leaving him with an only child. 
Mr. Hopkins was by no means blind to his son’s affectations ; and 
had not the smallest sympathy with the high-flown notions which 
Mortimer retailed — very much at second-hand, and a good deal 
the worse for wear. But he had an odd persuasion that the gen- 
tility of his late wife’s family “ came out” in Mortimer’s vagaries; 
and he secretly regarded them with complacency. 

A tray with wine and spirits was carried in; and the kettle over 
the spirit-lamp being replenished with hot water, Mortimer Hop- 
kins invited his guests to “ mix for themselves,” which they pro- 
ceeded to do. Hopkins senior meanwhile had been proposing in 
a low voice to William Hughes the terms on which the latter was 
to undertake the Swiss landscapes. 

“ I can’t help it, Mr. Hughes,” said Mr. Hopkins, after some 
whispered discussion. “ The party I’m dealing for has his views, 
and he sticks to ’em. There’s many would be glad of the price 
offered, that’s all I know. Take it or leave it.” 

“ I will take it, Mr. Hopkins,” said William, after a short pause, 
“ because I am in need of the money.” 

“ And a very good reason too ! I don’t know a better. Well, 
then, that’s settled.” 

Then Mr. Hopkins sipped his grog with an air of satisfaction, 
and became conversational. 

Mr. Percival Snagge, who had got the lead just before the ar- 
rival of the last comer, and had been holding forth about his own 
Titianesque methods, wished to keep the discourse at that lofty 
level ; but Hopkins senior proved extremely unsympathetic and 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


35 


unmanageable. As for William Hughes, even the grinding bar- 
gain to which he had just been subjected could not suppress the 
enjoyment with which he listened to the new element introduced 
into the conversation. 

“ My dear sir,” said Hopkins, addressing Snagge, “ we must 
move with the times. It isn’t a bit of good sticking to one period 
more than another. Lord, the number of styles I’ve seen come 
up and go down again even in the short time /’ve had anything 
to do with pictures — ! Say, for instance, that I see a run on 
smudginess of execution at any given date — what then? Am I a 
goin’ to preach against smudginess in the teeth of the fashion? 
Not if I know it ! No, no ; whether it’s pre-Kafhe-ite, or Meed- 
evil, or Impressionism, or whatever it may be, when the public 
appears with its money in its hand, I supply what the public de- 
mands, to the best of my ability. But as for taste — Lord, what- 
ever the public likes, that is taste ! And, let me tell you, no- 
body ’ll ever make a business pay on any other terms.” 

“ The abstract principles of Beauty,” said Mr. Snagge, emphati- 
cally (and when Mr. Snagge was emphatic he clenched his teeth 
in a fashion which seemed to flatten out all the vowel sounds as 
though they had been mangled) — “ the abstract principles of 
Beauty are eternal!” 

“ Oh, ’old ’ard there, Mr. Snagge ! I’m not contradicting you 
on the point of abstract principles. I never had the education for 
it. Why, I don’t suppose there’s a man living knows less about 
the abstract principles of ’igh Art than me! And I believe Mr. 
Hughes here’ll bear me out in that?” 

“ Entirely !” assented William Hughes, with polite readiness. 

“ Nor I ain’t disputing against my son Mortimer’s ideas of ’igh 
Art. He’s quite welcome to entertain ’em, being provided for at a 
rising salary with one of the most respectable tea-brokers in the 
city of London. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that there’s some- 
thing particularly gentlemanly in those views and suited to gentle- 
men. But for practical artists, it’s another thing ; and I believe 
Mr. Hughes ’ll bear me out again ?” 

“ Undoubtedly !” responded William Hughes, with a beaming 
face. 

“ Now you, Mr. Snagge,” proceeded Hopkins, growing more 
and more eloquent under the stimulus of hot gin-and- water, com- 


36 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


bwied with his own powerful arguments — “you yourself, sir, as 
I am given to understand, are in the enjoyment of a private inde- 
pendency. What follows ? You can afford to go in for abstract 
principles and Titian’s coloring, and what not. It’s no odds to 
you that your pictures don’t command a price in the market — 
which, merely looking at what stands to reason, I presume they 
don't do. But with Mr. Hughes, for instance, if he’ll excuse me 
saying so, that sort of thing won’t wash. Why, if he was to go 
in for coloring on a new principle equal to Titian’s, or any games 
of that sort, there isn’t a dealer in the trade would give him an- 
other commission ! He’s got to paint pictures that ’ll sell. And 
you’ll notice, as a general principle, the ’igh Art private gents that 
crack up each other’s performances ain’t fond of buying ’em !” 
added Mr. Hopkins, with a solemn wink. 

After this, there ensued a profound silence which lasted several 
minutes. It was felt that, however sincere might be Mr. Hop- 
kins’s admiration for the gentlemanly views of Art held by Morti- 
mer and Mortimer’s friends, yet his mode of expressing that ad- 
miration had a damping effect on the company generally. 

Messrs. Green and Toller puffed silently at their cigars, with 
their eyes fixed on the fire. Mortimer privately held that there 
was a vast deal of unanswerably sound argument in his father’s 
remarks, being aware, deep down in his consciousness, that, for 
his own part, the Early Greek youth was but the guinea’s stamp — 
medallion’s profile — while the tea-broker was the man, for a’ that. 
Nevertheless, he considered those remarks to be ill-timed. For 
work is one thing, and play is another; and when you are play- 
ing at aestheticism it is objectionable to spoil the game. As for 
Mr. Percival Snagge, he had pointedly withdrawn his attention, 
and sat with his eyes upturned to the ceiling, his hair tossed 
wildly back, his chin elevated, and his upper lip turned almost 
inside out, to express scorn. 

The pause was broken by Mr. Coney, whose mind (perhaps by 
reason of its vastness) moved slowly, and who had been ponder- 
ing on Mr. Hopkins’s allusion to his son’s prospects. 

“ Ah !” he said, shaking his big, bald forehead from side to 
side, “ Baikie and Wiggetts is as sound a firm as I know, and a 
young man is to be congratulated on having a berth there. But 
Mortimer is not likely to be dependent on that." 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


37 


Hopkins gave a short cough, and looked round him with an air 
of mysterious importance. “ Well, Coney,” he said, “ you may 
happen to know that there is property among my son’s relations 
by the mother’s side, but I never build on it. Anyway, what I 
say is, that Mortimer’s best chance of getting it is to make it 
plain that he can do without it. There’s nothing a rich man hates 
more than the idea of his money going to a poor one. And, 
mind you, I don’t know but what I should feel the same. You 
may call it sentimental if you like, but I’m persuaded there’s feel- 
ings in human nature that you can’t redooce to cool reason.” 

“There’s a pot of money rolling up in a certain quarter, sir — a 
pot of money,” said Mr. Coney, impressively, and slowly passing 
his hand upward over the perfectly smooth expanse from his eye- 
brow to the crown of his head. 

“ Ah ! it was curious,” returned Hopkins, “ your happening 
to fall in with that party, after him ducking under, so to say, for 
years, as I’ve understood — to such an extent, in fact, that some 
of his friends and family thought he was dead. Let me see, how 
long is it since you met him?” 

“Two years — rather better ; last time I was in the States. We 
were in the same boarding-house for a time out West. He was 
tied by the leg there, laid up with a sprained foot, and I saw a 
good deal of him.” 

“Ah! just so. He couldn’t get away, eh ?” said Hopkins, 
without the least sarcastic intention. 

“You were never personally acquainted with him, were you?” 
said Coney, after a short pause. 

“Me! Lord bless your soul ! he wasn’t very likely to be per- 
sonally acquainted with a chap like me! No, no; the late Mrs. 
Hopkins’s connections are a very different stamp from yours 
truly.” 

“He was a blood relation of Mrs. H., though, wasn’t he?” 

“ Rather ! Own uncle by the mother’s side.” 

“ So near as that?” 

“ So near as that, sir.” 

“What aged man do you say he is?” asked Coney, after an- 
other pause. 

“ Oh ! — why, let me see. A year or two the wrong side of 
sixty, I should say.” 


38 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“lie looks more than that. Ten years more than that. But 
men live hard out there. He drinks more than is good for him, 
in a queer, solitary kind of way. All his life is queer and solitary. 
Men who know him in New York said to me that his speculating 
is just for the sake of the excitement, and that though lie’s had 
wonderful luck, he cares very little about the money.” 

“ Gammon !” cried Hopkins, indignantly. “ Not care about the 
money ! ’Pon my soul, there’s nothing some people won’t say 
about a man !” 

Mortimer Hopkins listened with attentive interest to all this. So 
did Green and Toller. They were frankly curious on the subject; 
having hitherto heard only vaguely magnificent hints from Mortimer 
about his wealthy connections, and having, it must be owned, re- 
garded the hints with scepticism. 

But William Hughes had not found the conversation interesting, 
after the moment when it had descended from general principles to 
concrete particulars about Hopkins’s family affairs. Hughes sat, 
pipe in mouth, plunged into a meditation as to how little it would 
be possible for him to subsist upon while he should be painting the 
Swiss views, and how he could contrive to provide for Claude in 
such a manner as to content Aunt Judith. 

All at once the mention of a name roused him from his musings 
as effectually as if it had been shouted aloud, although it was spoken 
in an ordinary tone of voice: 

“ Christopher Dalton !” 

It was twenty-seven years ago since he had first made acquaint- 
ance with that name in Judith’s distracted letter. The tumult, the 
rage, the throbbing anguish of that time were past and gone — gone 
like his hopes, his ambition, and his youth ; but even now he could 
not hear the words “ Christopher Dalton ” without a quickened 
pulse and a sickening rush of feeling. The mention of Dalton in 
that company was strangely unexpected; but William Hughes had 
no impulse of curiosity to hear more. His first instinct was to go 
away. For years he had striven to drive the thought of that man 
from his mind, which had once been haunted by it night and day 
with maddening persistency. He had turned resolutely away from 
the irrevocable past. The lost and loved would not return. And 
for the man who had caused their misery — there was a gulf between 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


39 


them. They were divided forever; and it was best so. Moreover, 
William Hughes’s feeling was not of the kind which finds relief in 
words. During these latter years Aunt Judith would fain some- 
times have “talked over” their tragic family story; but she had 
never dared to mention it to William. 

He stood up automatically, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. 

“ Not going, are you, Mr. Hughes ?” said Mortimer, civilly. 

But Mr. Hughes answered that he must be going ; and his de- 
parture seemed to furnish the needed impulse for deciding the other 
guests to go also. As he was wrapping his shepherd’s plaid round 
his shoulders in the passage, the elder Hopkins ran down-stairs, and 
offered to walk with him as far as the roads were the same. The 
offer was unwelcome, but it could scarcely be refused, so they left 
the house together. 

Hughes supposed that the dealer had some further suggestion or 
direction to give about the Swiss views ; but Mr. Hopkins was full 
of a different subject, and began upon it almost as soon as they had 
stepped into the street. 

He expatiated on the gentility of his late wife’s family; on the 
dismay her father and mother would have felt at the idea of her 
marrying a chap like him ; on the certainty that she never would 
have married him but for the fact of her being a drudging nursery 
governess, penniless, and an orphan ; on the remarkable circum- 
stance that Mortimer was “ quite the gentleman ” in many of his 
ideas, taking, in this respect, entirely after his mother’s side of the 
house ; and, finally, on how the discovery of Mr. Dalton, his mother’s 
uncle, might lead to Mortimer’s being able to carry his gentlemanly 
ideas into practice by the only means available for that purpose — 
namely, the possession of a great deal of money. “ For,” said Mr. 
John Hopkins, with naive conviction, “ the gentlemanliest ideas in 
the world ain’t enough if you want to act the gentleman. You 
must have the cash, sir.” 

At another time, William would have delighted in these artless 
manifestations of Mr. Hopkins’s soul. But nowall relish of that 
sort had been overcome by a pungent bitterness. Suddenly a 
startling thought caused him to lift his head, and break silence with 
an abrupt question : “ There’s no chance of his coming to England, 
is there ?” 

“Who? Mr. Dalton? No; I’m afraid not. I wish we could 


40 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


get him this side of the water, for I think a man like him would be 
pretty sure to take to Mortimer, and pleased to see that he’d had a 
good education and all that. But he’s a very odd fish, is Christopher 
Dalton, Esquire; reg’lar, what-d’ye-call-it ? — missingthrope. He 
hates the very name of coming back to the Old Country, so I’m 
told. However, owing to my friend Nat Coney having a pretty 
wide circle of acquaintances in the States, I shall be able now to 
keep my eye on Mr. Dalton, more or less. That’s important, you 
know, in case of his going off the hooks sudden, and dying 
intestate, or anything of that sort ; and his life ain’t a good one 
from an insurance point of view. I’m not sure what collaterals 
there may be, because the late Mrs. II.’s connections ain’t very 
likely to take any notice of me. But, by what I hear, Dalton’s 
bound to cut up so as there’ll be a good slice for all. Mortimer’s 
grandmother was the favorite sister; and if you come to next 
o’ kin, I don’t know whose’s nearer ! Well, there’s your ’bus, I 
think. Good-night, Mr. Hughes.” 


CHAPTER YI. 

Barbara Copley thought herself wonderfully fortunate in 
having fallen in with such a family as the Ketterings. They were 
good-tempered, cheerful, on excellent terms with themselves and 
with each other. They were, moreover, well educated. Poor 
Barbara’s pupils had been drawn hitherto from a very different 
class of creatures. The mother of one of them had been heard to 
object to Miss Copley on the ground that she looked so dismal, and 
didn’t seem to take any pleasure in the lessons ; whereas she (the 
matron in question) was convinced that a “ cheerful way with you ” 
was half the battle in teaching young people. 

But if you set the most accomplished and enthusiastic of whips 
to drive a costermonger’s cart, you would scarcely expect him to 
manifest much vivid enjoyment of the performance. Indeed, his 
enjoyment would probably be in an inverse ratio to his skill. Now, 
Olga and Ida Kettering were sufficiently intelligent to make the 
lessons interesting. In truth, Barbara had never taught under such 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


41 


agreeable circumstances. And since any pleasurable emotion with 
Barbara easily transmuted itself into gratitude, she felt herself grow- 
ing daily more attached to these people who were so kind as to 
employ her. 

And then the revelation of her mother’s old love-story could not 
fail to make her listen with some curiosity to her pupils’ gossip 
about their Aunt Augusta in Germany. Barbara would certainly 
have liked to know something more than the mere dry fact that her 
mother had once been engaged to Arthur Maddison, and that the 
match had been broken off by circumstances in which neither of 
them was to blame. And she had little doubt that Aunt Judith 
would be willing to speak of it all freely enough. But Barbara’s 
delicate and sensitive loyalty towards her uncle made her shrink 
from asking for more information than he had chosen to give 
voluntarily. 

It was therefore with some little stirring of excitement that she 
heard from her pupils of the arrival of their cousin from Hamburg; 
and when, on entering the Ketterings’ drawing-room a day or two 
afterwards, she found a gentleman there whom Mrs. Kettering 
introduced as “ My nephew, Mr. Frederick Hofmann.” Barbara 
could not help looking at him with more keenness of interest than 
usually attends such casual encounters, for she knew that his mother 
had been Augusta Maddison. 

She met an odd look in his eyes, which seemed to be a look of 
recognition, although she was sure she had never seen him before. 
This seemed to strike Ida, the younger of the two girls, also; for 
she said, “Why, Fritz, you look as if you had known Miss Copley 
before !” 

“ No ; I have never had that honor,” answered Fritz. 

“ Well, now you must just clear out, Fritz,” said Olga. “ I am 
not going to take my lesson before witnesses. Please to make 
tracks. Skedaddle !” 

“ Olga,” cried Mrs. Kettering, “ I wish you would not talk so 
much slang! It is really dreadful.” 

Mrs. Kettering was a handsome blonde : such a looking woman 
as Gretchen might have developed into if she had never met Faust. 
She spoke idiomatic English with perfect ease and fluency, but with 
a strong German accent, producing all her “r’s” somewhere at the 
back of the palate, instead of with the tip of the tongue. 


42 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ Oh, mamma, I only want to complete Fritz’s education. I’m 
sure Aunt Augusta would wish him to speak his mother-tongue like 
a native.” 

“ Slang is not my mother-tongue, nor my mother’s tongue either, 
Miss Kettering. But I’m not altogether such a benighted foreigner 
as to talk correct English!” answered Fritz, smiling. “So be 
good enough to consider yourself snubbed and sat upon.” 

“ I am sorry to turn you out, Fritz,” said Mrs. Kettering, leading 
the way to another room. “ But the schoolroom piano is nearly 
worn out, and the girls say it is fit for nothing but five-finger 
exercises. So they take their lesson on the Broad wood. They are 
to have finishing lessons next season from Ilammerfaust, and then 
papa promises them a new instrument.” 

The latter part of this speech was made in the little sitting-room 
at the back of the house, which Mrs. Kettering called her boudoir, 
and whither Ida had followed her mother and cousin. 

Here they found a lady seated at a table, writing. But almost 
as they entered she closed and locked a little portable leather desk 
which she had been using, and put a small, jingling bunch of keys 
into her pocket. 

“ Don’t let us disturb you, Sally,” said Mrs. Kettering. 

“No; I have done,” answered the lady, speaking with the same 
sort of sharp decision which had marked her way of locking the 
desk. 

“ Here is Fritz Hofmann. You remember Miss Stringer, Fritz.” 

Fritz bowed, and then took Miss Stringer’s offered hand. “Oh, 
yes, Aunt Gertrude,” he said, “ I had the pleasure of making her 
acquaintance the last time I was in England, and I do not easily 
forget faces.” 

“ How d’ye do ?” said Miss Stringer. And then she took some 
needlework out of a basket, and appeared to dismiss him from her 
mind altogether. 

She was a lady of about five-and-forty years old, with a thin 
aquiline nose, and bright, handsome eyes of a bluisb gray. She had 
abundant gray hair, all drawn back from her face, and twisted into 
as tight a knot as possible. There was a high color in her cheeks, 
and her complexion generally looked rough and rasped, as though it 
were ruthlessly exposed to all weathers. 

“Fritz,” said Ida, looking earnestly at him, “I know it’s quite 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


43 


true what you say about not forgetting faces; and you have seen 
Miss Copley before ! I’m sure you have. Come now, haven’t 
you ?” 

One of Ida’s characteristics was a stolid inquisitiveness. She 
would press her questions with the untiring persistency of a draught 
ox, which may be brought to a standstill by steepness or a heavy 
load, but will never, under any circumstances, jib. Ida was per- 
fectly good-humored, and never had any malicious intention in her 
questioning ; but she was incapable of considering more than one 
aspect of a subject at a time. And when she wanted anything, she 
entirely lost sight of the possibility that you might desire something 
different. On the present occasion, however, this constitutional 
want of tact did no harm ; since Fritz had not the least objection to 
answer “Yes, I have met Miss Copley before. I recognized her 
immediately.” 

“There! I said so. Where did you see her?” 

“ In a halo — surrounded by an aureole of light.” 

“ Oh, Fritz, that’s nonsense. What do you mean ?” 

Fritz might have postponed his explanation, feeling a certain 
amusement in “ playing ” Ida’s curiosity, but that his aunt here 
looked at him interrogatively with large blue eyes which were very 
like Ida’s, and he felt himself bound to answer straightforwardly. 
“ I saw her one Saturday evening in the Harrow Road by the glare 
of a gaslight outside a butcher’s shop.” 

“ Goodness ! And you call that a halo ?” exclaimed Ida, indig- 
nantly. 

But here Mrs. Kettering, interposing, and desiring Ida to go 
to her lessons, the young lady returned to the drawing-room, in 
some uncertainty whether Fritz had been laughing at her or 
not. 

“I was walking towards the Underground Railway Station,” 
pursued Fritz, whose imagination was evidently busy with the 
retrospect, “ pushing along through a swarm of squalid people, 
when out of the stream of faces on the opposite side of the way, 
that face seemed to rise like something belonging to another world. 
It was a very curious sensation to see it appear out of the haze into 
that strong illumination, looking so different from all around it. It 
impressed one like something in a dream.” 

“Yes; I am sure Miss Copley must have looked very different 


44 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


from most of the people in the Harrow Road on a Saturday night,” 
said Mrs. Kettering, after a little pause of consideration. 

“What is the matter with the people in the Harrow Road on a 
Saturday night?” inquired Miss Stringer, abruptly. She spoke 
with a tight horizontal movement of the lower lip, articulating 
every syllable with sharp, metallic distinctness. 

“ Oh, my dear Sally, they are so horrid !” 

“ How — ‘ horrid ?’ ” 

“ Oh, so — so — so dirty !” 

“ Dirtier than the people in other roads on a Saturday night ?” 
asked Miss Stringer, ironically. 

“ Oh yes ; much !” replied Mrs. Kettering, taking up her em- 
broidery and leaning placidly back in her chair. 

Miss Stringer glanced at her, and then glanced impatiently away. 
She felt sometimes that talking to Mrs. Kettering was like shooting 
arrows into a down cushion. “ I presume,” she said, turning her 
bright eyes on young Hofmann, “that the recognition was not 
mutual ? Miss Copley did not see you ?” 

“ I presume not; I was on the other side of the way.” 

“Ah! Unembellished with a halo.” 

“ Except the moral halo of virtue, which I always carry about 
with me.” 

Miss Stringer threw back her head like a horse that had been 
suddenly checked, and a rather grim smile widened her tight lips. 
Frederick Hofmann was evidently not a down cushion. 

“ We like Miss Copley very much,” said Mrs. Kettering, who 
had been pursuing her own train of thought in her own leisurely 
fashion. “Of course, we were sure, when Rosenheim recommend- 
ed her, that her music would be all right. But, besides that, she 
teaches drawing in a very superior way, and she is altogether ac- 
complished and quite a lady ; isn’t she, Sally ?” 

“Ladylike” returned Miss Stringer, with an air of emphasizing 
a subtle distinction. 

“ And we think her pretty.” 

“ Scarcely pretty. Interesting,” pronounced Miss Stringer, with 
decision. 

“Well, she would be pretty if she were not quite so pale.” 

“ No; as far as that goes, her paleness — which is quite clear and 
healthy — is rather attractive.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


45 


Oh, by the way, Fritz,” said his aunt, turning towards him with 
new animation, “you must tell your mother — fancy what we found 
out the other day ! Miss Copley’s family belong to Marypool ! 
Augusta will like to know.” 

“Ah! Really? Yes; my mother is always interested in hearing 
about her native town.” 

“ Wasn’t it an odd circumstance, Sally ?” said Mrs. Kettering. 
“Odd! What?” 

“ Miss Copley’s people being of Marypool, you know.” 

“ Well, considering that the population of Marypool was over a 
quarter of a million at the last census, one would suppose it likely 
that a good many persons should be more or less directly connected 
with that seaport.” 

“ But they don’t all come here to my house, Sally !” 

“Good heavens, no! That I should consider odd — and, per- 
haps, even more than odd !” 

“ I will write and ask my mother whether she remembers the 
name of Copley in Marypool,” said Fritz. 

But when, later in the afternoon, Mrs. Kettering made some 
allusions to this intention in the presence of the girls, Olga and Ida 
both declared that Miss Copley had never been in Marypool in her 
life, and that they imagined the connection with that town to be on 
the part of her aunt and uncle, who were named Hughes. 

“ And they’re quite, quite poor, so they can’t have been friends 
of Aunt Augusta’s,” said Ida, naively. 

“ Oh, I did not mean that Fritz should go into detail. I only 
thought Augusta would like to hear of somebody from Marypool. 
But, perhaps, it is not worth while to trouble your mother about it, 
Fritz,” said Mrs. Kettering. 

“ Perhaps not,” answered Fritz. 

Nevertheless he did write the same evening, asking his mother if 
she remembered the names of Hughes and Copley among the Mary- 
pool folks in his youth. 

What a flutter of excitement it would have caused in the breast 
of poor Aunt Judith could she have known that her name was be- 
ing thus recalled to Augusta Maddison after all these years ! To 
her the events connected with the breaking-off of her niece’s en- 
gagement had been so momentous as to shape the whole course 
of her subsequent life. And ever since she had learned that Bar- 


46 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


bara’s pupils were related to the Maddisons, a crowd of slumber- 
ing memories and associations had been revived in her mind, and 
had occupied almost all her waking thoughts — all of them, that is, 
which were not devoted to Claude. In her heart she wondered 
that William should have taken it so coolly; and should ever have 
spoken in excuse of Arthur Maddison’s conduct. For her part, she 
despised and detested Arthur Maddison, and should never cease to 
think he had behaved in a dastardly and dishonorable manner. 

The truth was, that Judith had been from the first the chief 
partisan of the Maddison alliauce. She saw none of the purse- 
proud patronage on the part of the rich merchant’s family which 
irked her brother. It was never displayed in an openly offensive 
form. And Judith was defended against any suspicion that the 
Maddisons could possibly think they condescended in allying them- 
selves with the Hugheses, by her fond belief in the glories of her 
pedigree. Her illusions on this point made an agreeable medium 
through which to contemplate her fellow-creatures; and they had 
the advantage of being intangible, and thus defying “the slings and 
arrows of outrageous fortune” — and even, to a certain extent, of ill- 
natured criticism. You may shatter your neighbor’s painted glass 
window of which he is so proud; but it is clearly of no use to fling 
stones at a rainbow. 

Moreover, Judith had not so much perspicacity in judging the 
character of Authur Maddison as her brother had. She was con- 
sequently overwhelmed with surprise and resentment when he broke 
off his engagement to Olive ; and in that heat of her anger she had 
written a very bitter letter to the young man, which offended him 
beyond forgiveness. About this letter Judith had never said a 
word to any one. She felt instinctively that William would dis- 
approve of it. But although William’s disapproval might awe, 
it seldom convinced her. She was, indeed, obliged to admit to 
herself that the hot Welsh blood of which she was so proud had 
occasionally hurried her into rash actions, scarcely justifiable by 
cool reason. But she had never repented writing that letter to 
Arthur Maddison. She only hoped she had made him feel the 
sting of the lash ! 

But that was long, long ago now. She had not expected ever 
to hear of the Maddisons again, for all the old links with Mary- 
pool had been broken abruptly when the ruined family left their 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


47 


native place. When Barbara told her that she had seen and been 
introduced to a gentleman who was the son of Augusta Maddison, 
Aunt Judith was quite agitated. 

“ I hope he doesn’t guess who you are, Barbara,” she said. 
“You may depend oil it our name has no sweet savor in the 
Maddison nostrils. The man who has injured you, you know, will 
never forgive you. Not that Augusta was so heartless as the others. 
I have always said that. And besides, she was away — married and 
out of it all before — ” And then the old lady stopped short and 
shook her head. 

“Aunt Judith,” said Barbara, turning on her all at once with a 
little quiet air of resolution, “ has Uncle William ever forbidden 
you to talk to me about my Aunt Winifred ?” 

All the wintry roses forsook Aunt Judith’s cheeks, and her 
dark eyes had a startled look as she exclaimed, “ Forbidden me, 
child !” 

“ No ; I don’t mean forbidden. I mean — do you think he de- 
sires I should know nothing about her story ? Because, mind 
that, Aunt Judith, if you think so, I will not ask another ques- 
tion. You will tell me the truth, I know.” 

“ N — no, child,” stammered Judith, faintly. She was searching 
her conscience, for she wished and intended to answer truly. After 
a moment or two she raised her head and said, more confidently, 
“ No ; I do not think so.” Then she added, sinking her voice 
almost to a whisper, “Only he cannot — you must never speak to 
him on the subject. It nearly killed him. He had convulsive fits 
when he was a young man. Oh, it was terrible ! But I don’t 
believe he would think it right to refuse to tell you if you wish 
to know. You are not a child now.” 

“ I am not a child ; and I do wish to know,” answered Barbara, 
firmly. Then, seeing Aunt Judith pause, uncertain how to begin, 
she said, “ Was it on account of Aunt Winifred that my mother’s 
first engagement was broken off ?” 

Aunt Judith put her old wrinkled hand on the fair young hand 
of her grandniece. But it was not of Barbara she was thinking. 
“ My poor little gentle Olive !” she exclaimed. And then in a 
rush of feeling that made the words flow in broken sentences, 
like a full stream that is chafed and checked by sharp rocks, all 
the sad story was told. 


48 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Barbara listened in almost absolute silence. Every now and 

•/ 

then she pressed her aunt’s band ; and when the old woman 
ceased, she said, almost in a whisper, “Thank you, Aunt Judith.” 

The tears were flowing down Barbara’s cheeks, and her cheeks 
were white as lilies. The tragedy of her grandfather’s death, the 
ruin of the family fortunes, the terrible fate of Winifred, falling 
like a star from heaven into unknown blackness — all these were 
very dreadful to think upon ; but they scarcely came home to her 
more nearly than some sorrowful story in a book. She half re- 
proached herself that it should be so, but that was the truth. 
Even her mother’s broken love story had a touch of unreality 
to her mind. That poor young Olive ! Yes; she pitied her, but 
she could not help thinking of her as an altogether separate being 
from her own mother. Her mother’s home had been happy, and 
her mother’s life had not been loveless, in spite of the defection 
of Arthur Maddison. 

But what did touch Barbara — what pierced her very heart as 
she thought of it — was the record of struggle and self-sacrifice 
heroically borne by William and Judith Hughes; her grand-aunt 
striving against benumbing discouragement and advancing age, 
to help in the earning of their daily bread ; and William ! What 
had his whole existence been from the day when he read that 
letter, telling of his sister’s flight, under the bright-blue sky of a 
Roman spring morning? 

He had then youth, hope, health, friends, and genius. Barbara 
believed fanatically in her uncle’s genius. But a blight had fallen 
on them all. His artistic gifts were mortgaged for many a year 
to earn food and raiment and shelter for the helpless woman de- 
pendent on him ; his health was broken ; his whole life maimed. 
And then she thought of his face beaming with some quiet jest, 
his eyes full of cheerful radiance, his kind voice ; and the pathos 
of it all smote her to the heart, and she hid her face and sobbed. 

Judith had not shed many tears. She had told her story very 
simply as regarded herself, having, in truth, a brave nature, not 
at all prone to exaggerate her personal sufferings. And now her 
mind was busy with another order of ideas. She was imagining 
the shock and commotion it would cause among the survivors of 
the Maddison family if they could know whose child Miss Copley, 
the governess, really was. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


49 


“And were there any other relations there, Barbara? That 
lady you spoke of — Miss — Miss Sally Somebody, does she belong 
to the Maddisons?” 

“No, Aunt Judith,” answered Barbara, drying her eyes and 
checking a sob in her throat. “She is a far-off cousin of Mr. 
Kettering, I believe.” 

“ Ah ! Then there was only that young man, Augusta’s son ? 
Better so. Men are not so sharp as women in some things. It 
would really be a tremendous business if the Maddisons were to 
know. I hardly think you could continue giving lessons to the 
Ketterings. The Maddisons would not know how to hold up 
their heads before you ; and of course they would hate you all 
the more.” 

Poor Judith ! 

A day or two later, Fritz Hofmann was reading a letter from 
his mother, in which, after a page and a half occupied with other 
matters, there was this passage : “ Your mention of the Hugheses 
reminds me of old times. The name of Copley I know nothing 
of. But Hughes is a name that was once very familiar to me, 
although the people who bore it were not quite in our circle of 
friends. But your Uncle Arthur was once actually engaged to a 
Miss Hughes ! Papa never liked the match, but Arthur was set 
upon it, and if Arthur had cried for the moon in those days, I 
think my father and mother would have sent up a balloon to try 
and bring it down for him. You can’t imagine Uncle Arthur a 
spoiled young gentleman bent on making a romantic marriage ! 
However, it was all broken off. There was some terrible scandal 
in the Hughes family — nothing touching the girl my brother 
was fond of, and whom I knew before my marriage ; a sweet, 
gentle creature, but rather unbedeutend — a little insignificant, you 
know. But although I never was told particulars, I know there 
was great trouble about an elder sister in London, and Arthur 
felt it his duty to yield to the advice of his friends and family, 
and the whole affair was at an end. The Hugheses disappeared 
from Marypool after that. There was an aunt whom I remember, 
and my mother used to say she had been one of the Marypool 
belles in her young days. See how your question has set my pen 
running? What can you care about all these old stories? But 
if any of the Hughes family survive, and you should be thrown 
4 


50 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


in the way of them, just say a kind word from me. I have a 
soft place in my breast for all Marypool things and people. The 
glamour of youth, I suppose. But very likely the Hugheses of 
this generation know nothing about me, and will wonder what 
you are talking of !” 


CHAPTER VII. 

The end of September and the first week in October are not 
supposed to be the time best adapted for landscape-painting in 
Switzerland, and yet this was the season chosen for William 
Hughes by William Hughes’s unknown patron, acting through 
Mr. John Hopkins. But then the painter was not asked to paint 
high mountain valleys, ravines, or glaciers. His views, it was 
stipulated, were to be all taken in the immediate neighborhood 
of Lake Leman, among reddening vine-leaves and groups of wal- 
nut-trees framing blue glimpses of the lake. 

“ The fact is,” said William Hughes, speaking of the commis- 
sion at home, “ they are to be simply a series of decorative panels 
made to fit a certain room, and carrying out a certain autumnal 
tone of color.” 

“ That is not worthy of your brush, Uncle William,” said Bar- 
bara, indignantly. 

“ The better it is done, the worthier it will be of my brush, 
which is a reason for my doing it,” answered William, talking 
his nonsense with a grave face, but with a gleam of jest in his 
eyes which looked confidently for an answering gleam in Barbara’s. 

“ Of course it is,” said Miss Hughes, seriously. “ Whatever is 
worth doing is worth doing well 1” 

Aunt Judith did not always understand her nephew’s irony. 
And she could never be made to see clearly the subtle distinctions 
between art and handicraft on which artists seemed to her to lay 
too great stress. 

“ I suppose you would scarcely think it fitting for Uncle Will- 
iam to paint griffins and crowns on coach panels, Aunt Judith ?” 
Barbara had once said to her. 

“Oh no; of course not,” Judith had replied. It may, how- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


51 


ever, be doubted whether, by her unassisted judgment, she would 
have arrived at the conclusion that William much derogated in 
painting coach panels ; if only the coach panels were paid for at 
the same rate per square foot as a canvas in a gilt frame. But 
her judgment on this point was assisted — as the judgment of all 
of us is assisted on so many points — by the opinion of the world 
in general. 

“The work will be very welcome,” said William. “All the 
more because it gives me the chance of seeing Claude. I don’t 
know how else I could have afforded it.” 

A second letter had been received by Miss Hughes from Claude, 
written as soon as he learned that it was probable his uncle would 
go to Switzerland and see for himself how matters stood. Claude 
was not at all delighted by the prospect of that personal inspec- 
tion, and his second letter Aunt Judith did not show to any one 
else. It was not that in her own mind she accused Claude of 
misrepresentation or exaggeration. She believed every word he 
wrote about himself — or, at any rate, she believed that he believed 
it. But that was, she told herself, because she understood him, 
and could sympathize with his inmost feelings. To the outside 
observer things might not appear to justify Claude’s complaints; 
and she feared that, where Claude was concerned, William would 
never be more than an outside observer. 

She, to some extent, relieved her feelings on this score by hav- 
ing a pitched battle with Larcher in defence of “ Master Claude,” 
the faithful old servant having taken upon herself to blame the 
young man for unsteadiness and want of resolution. 

“Mistress was terrible down in her spirits, miss,” said Larcher 
afterwards to Barbara. “ I could see she was fretting and ner- 
vous like about the boy, and I knew nothing would brisk her up 
like giving me a good rowing. It done her a deal of good, Miss 
Barbara; and I often think ’tis a mercy mistress has got me to 
talk to, for talk she will, and sometimes says more to the school- 
children’s parents than common people like them can understand. 
Mrs. Budge now, the baker’s wife, begun at me the other day as 
familiar ! — wanting to talk about our family affairs. Mistress had 
been letting out things. I knew that very well. Well, Mrs. 
Budge didn’t get much change out o’ me, Miss Barbara. Oh, I 
don’t say nothing against her so long as she’s kept in her place. 


52 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Why, the chimley-sweep round the corner is a good, honest man 
as need be, but I shouldn’t be fond of setting next him at 
meals !” 

“ Of course my aunt has a right to speak to whomsoever she 
pleases, Larcher,” said Barbara, gravely. 

“ Law, Miss Barbara, I don’t mean no disrespect to mistress ! 
Never likely ! and me a slip of a little fool of a country girl when 
she first took me for under-housemaid forty odd years ago ! And 
her brother, Mr. David Hughes — your grandfather, Miss Barbara 
— as fine-looking and clever a gentleman as any in Marypool, and 
the kindness I’ve had from all the family as is past telling! 
’Tain’t very likely as I shouldn’t know what’s due to mistress!” 

Larcher had, indeed, only one grievance against the Hughes 
family — their refusal to accept all her savings when ruin fell upon 
them, and the school at Westbeach was broken up. Larcher had 
at that time already lived many years with Miss Hughes, her ser- 
vice having been only once interrupted for a short time by a cir- 
cumstance which she now appeared to regard as a mere trivial 
episode, and temporary interruption to the serious history of her 
life — namely, her marriage. She had married a green-grocer and 
market-gardener, who was much her senior, and who died within 
two years of the marriage, bequeathing his market-garden, his 
cart, his donkey, and all that was his to his widow. 

Upon this, Mrs. Ann Briggs, nee Larcher, realized her property, 
invested the proceeds, and returned to her service with Miss 
Hughes as quietly as though nothing had happened. She even 
refused to assume her married name, preferring to be called by 
the old familiar appellation. 

There was no reason to suppose that she had been unhappy 
with her husband. He had certainly not ill-treated her; and he 
had left her all his worldly goods. But Larcher scarcely ever 
mentioned him ; and when she did, it was with an apologetic 
smile and shake of the head, speaking of him as “ that there poor 
man Briggs,” and conveying in a general way that her marriage 
had been a passing absurdity, for which she solicited your kind 
indulgence, and which she begged to assure you should not occur 
again. 

The day of William’s departure for Switzerland was fixed, but 
he had one or two last words to say to Mr. Hopkins ; so he walked 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


53 


down one forenoon to the frame-maker’s place of business, in a 
street off Oxford Street, to see him. 

In the shop he found those two distinguished votaries of the 
Muses, Mr. Snagge and Mr. Coney. It could not be denied that 
Mr. Snagge suffered less of a metamorphosis from the broad light 
of day and the restrictions of ordinary life than did his accom- 
plished friend. Mr. Snagge could wear a suit of black velveteen, 
and a pink neck-tie, and a slouch hat; his eyes might roll wildly 
and his hair straggle down over his coat collar without attracting 
any inconvenient amount of attention in the busy streets of Lon- 
don. But one could scarcely count on the public preoccupation 
so far as to venture on walking about crowded thoroughfares in 
the costume worn by the Immortal Bard; or, at any rate, by the 
Immortal Bard’s plaster effigies. Mr. Coney, therefore, wisely 
resolved to “ sink the poet,” as his friend Snagge gracefully ex- 
pressed it, during his daily avocations ; and his worst enemy could 
not deny that he entirely succeeded. 

When William Hughes entered the shop, Mr. Coney was press- 
ing on the frame-maker’s attention some articles used in his trade, 
and Mr. Percival Snagge, with folded arms, and a face of ineffa- 
ble disdain, was gazing at one or two pictures disposed on easels 
at the back of the shop. 

“ Mornin’, Mr. Hughes, mornin’,” said Hopkins. “ Would you 
mind waiting a minute? I’ll attend to you in half a jiffy. Well, 
but now how would it be taking ’em by the gross, Coney ?” 

William Hughes nodded, and then strolled in the direction of 
Mr. Percival Snagge, who saluted him with a lofty bow, but did 
not relax the severe and almost bitter expression of his coun- 
tenance. It was obvious, however, from the direction of Mr. 
Snagge’s eyes, that this severity was not aimed at Hughes per- 
sonally, but was called forth by the lamentable shortcomings of 
the pictures at which he was looking. There were three oil-paint- 
ings — a study of a head, and two landscapes — and Hopkins had 
just exultantly informed Mr. Snagge that all the pictures had been 
sold, and sold “ dooced well too.” 

“ It’s discouraging to a man who has any feeling for High Art 
to see this sort of thing fetching a price,” said Mr. Snagge, with 
gloomy scorn on his brow, and his teeth tightly clenched. 

“ Oh, you shouldn’t allow yourself to be discouraged,” said 


54 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


William, cheerfully. “ If you persevere, perhaps your things may 
fetch a price some day.” 

“j My things — ? You misunderstand me. I did not mean — 
Are you acquainted with the works of Titian, sir?” 

“ I wouldn’t venture to sav so much as that ; but I have seen 
some of them.” 

“You must have remarked the extraordinary beauty of his 
backgrounds — the depth, the tone, the feeling, the chosen forms 
of mountain outline, the delicious aerial distance? Now look at 
that miserable daub which calls itself a landscape here ” — and he 
pointed with outstretched finger to one of the canvases before 
him. “Is there any one of all these qualities in it?” 

“ Well, with regard, now, to there being no ‘ chosen forms of 
mountain outline,’ for instance — might not that be in some meas- 
ure accounted for by the subject of the picture being in the 
Essex Marshes ?” 

Snagge slowly shook his head. “ It is not this or that detail, 
sir; it is the spirit of the whole. The flatness, the — the — above 
all, the poverty of coloring. Do you know how I should have 
begun had I been painting that picture ?” 

“ Not in the least. I can only give a dim guess as to how you 
would have finished.” 

Snagge turned his vague, lack-lustre blue eyes on the other 
man for a moment, doubtfully. Then he said, with an air of 
patient explanation, “You don’t carry in your mind the account 
of my process which I gave at our friend Mortimer’s the other 
night. The whole secret of my depth of color lies in the first 
preparation.” 

“ Oho !” 

“ Entirely. I begin by giving the canvas one uniform coat of 
black.” 

“ Bravo ! Don’t say another word I” 

“ Eh ?” 

“You can’t improve on that! I see it all. ‘One uniform coat 
of black.’ Capital ! Nothing could possibly be better.” 

And, with a beaming smile on his face, William returned to 
the front part of the shop, where Hopkins and Coney had by this 
time finished their business. 

“ Sorry to detain you, Mr. Hughes,” said Hopkins. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


55 


“ Don’t mention it ! I have been having a delightful conver- 
sation with Mr. Snagge, and enjoying myself very much.” 

“ Rum charikter, that !” said Hopkins, when William Hughes 
had departed, after saying the word he had come to say. 

“ How — rum ?” asked Mr. Coney. 

“ Well, what I should call a thoroughly unpractical charikter. 
Do you know that chap lives mewed up with an old grandmother, 
or aunt, or something ! And he has a whole brood of nephews 
and nieces hanging on him, too.” 

“ Don’t say so !” returned Coney, who was but moderately in- 
terested in Mr. Hughes’s domestic history. 

“ Fact. Oh, he’s an uncommonly rum charikter, is Hughes ! 
He’s almost a fool, you know, in some ways. But all the same, 
he has talent, mind you!” 

“ He does not impress me as having any high ajsthetic culture,” 
remarked Mr. Percival Snagge. 

“ Ah ! I dare say not. But he’s a well-educated chap, too. 
There’s a good deal of the gentleman about William Hughes,” 
said Mr. Hopkins, handsomely. 

The subject of the foregoing remarks had scarcely turned the 
corner into Oxford Street before a young gentleman entered the 
shop, and was received by the master of it with great deference. 
The young gentleman was our acquaintance, Fritz Hofmann ; and 
Mr. Hopkins’s extreme civility was due to his knowledge that 
Fritz Hofmann belonged to wealthy people, and was connected 
with some of his (Hopkins’s) most important customers. The 
young man had come now with some message to the frame-maker 
from Mrs. Kettering, and when the message was delivered he 
glanced round the shop, and saw the paintings on the easels. 

“ That’s a charming thing !” said he, pointing to one of the 
landscapes, and going up to examine it. 

Hopkins followed him, voluble and eager. “Ah ! a charming 
thing indeed, sir. First-rate bit of work that. An original Will- 
iam Hughes, sir, undoubted.” 

“I say, Hopkins — no; that landscape isn’t by Hughes, is it?” 
said Mr. Snagge, plucking him by the sleeve, with a very discon- 
certed and bewildered expression of countenance. 

Hopkins turned on him sharply — almost savagely. “ Is it by 
Hughes, sir ? Of course it is, sir. I’m not aware as I am in the 
habit of palming off one artist’s work for another.” 


56 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Snagge fell back in consternation. This aspect of Mr. Hop- 
kins was entirely new to him. But then he had not hitherto be- 
held Mr. Hopkins in the prosecution of his trade. 

The next moment Hopkins turned with deferential blandness 
to young Hofmann, who was still looking at the picture. “ No ; 
that ain’t my way of doing business — not exactly ! And if it 
was, it wouldn’t be much use trying to deceive you, sir. You’re 
a connyshure, sir. I can always tell with half an eye when a gen- 
tleman knows what’s what. And as to that landscape being an 
original William Hughes ” (with a withering glance at the crest- 
fallen Snagge), “ the picture’s signed. There’s the name in the 
far corner.” 

“Hughes,” repeated Fritz, musingly to himself. “Yes, he is a 
painter I know. I wonder if it’s the same.” 

“ Of course it’s the same, sir,” answered Hopkins, suspecting 
in his anger that Snagge’s question, and Snagge’s singular man- 
ner when putting it, had made his customer mistrustful. Will- 
iam Hughes;’ there can’t be any doubt about it at all. One of 
his pictures was bought off the walls of the Royal Academy Ex- 
hibition last season by His Imperial ’Ighness the Grand Duke 
Casimir. It was the property of Nfr. Barker, the well-known 
dealer. Most of Mr. Hughes’s work does get into Barker’s hands. 
That landscape, sir, which you so justly admire came to me by a 
fluke, as I may say.” 

“ Is it sold ?” asked Fritz. 

“Well, yes; it is sold. But the party might be indooced to 
part with it. I could try.” 

“ Not on my account, thank you. I am not a buyer of pict- 
ures.” 

“ Oh, don’t say that, sir, such a connyshure as you are ! I had 
the pleasure of selling a couple of pictures to Mr. Kettering — the 
frames were something superb, sir — two years ago.” 

“ Oh, to my uncle ! That’s a very different matter. But I 
should be much obliged if you would do one thing for me, Mr. 
Hopkins.” 

“ Proud, sir. Anything in my humble power.” 

“Just write down for me, on the back of this card, the address 
of Mr. William Hughes.” 

Hopkins had already taken the proffered card, and now stood 
with it in his hand, looking at Hofmann. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


57 


“ Mr. Hughes’s address, sir ?” 

“ If you please.” 

“ I’m extremely sorry, but I don’t happen to know it.” 

“Don’t you? I thought, as you had bought his picture — ” 

“Oh, but I didn’t buy it of him! Oh dear, no. It came into 
my hands by a fluke, as I mentioned. The truth is, he’s queer- 
tempered and shy about dealing direct with the public. Many 
artists are. But if it was for a matter of business — a commis- 
sion, or anything of that sort, I dare say I could find him, sir.” 

“Oh, thank you, it does not matter. You will attend to Mrs. 

Kettering’s order as soon as possible? Thank you. Good-morn- 

• 11 
lnsY 

o 

No sooner had Hofmann turned his back than Mr. Snagge, 
who still wore a troubled look, said, complainingly, “You never 
mentioned before that any of those paintings were by Hughes!” 

“What does it matter to you whether I did or didn’t, sir?” 
returned the dealer, snappishly. “And I’ll tell you what — an- 
other time, don’t go putting your oar in when a man’s engaged 
in his business.” 

“ I didn’t put my oar in !” said Snagge, feebly. 

“ What did you mean by asking in that mysterious kind of a 
way if the picture really was by Hughes, after I’d said it was ? It 
made that young fellow prick up his ears in a moment. I could 
see it plain enough. And the next thing is, he wants Mr. 
Hughes’s address. A nice job if buyers are to go to the artist 
direct ! There’s a certain etiquette in every business ; and I ain’t 
a-going to have it interfered with in mine.” 

“ I — I’m very sorry — I didn’t mean — I was only rather — rather 
surprised ; because I had been making a few critical remarks to 
Hughes on that very landscape.” 

“ Oh, blow your critical remarks, sir !” answered Hopkins, who 
was still very angry. “They may be all very well at a social 
gathering, where parties meet together to enjoy themselves in a 
gentlemanly way, and it don’t matter what confounded nonsense 
they talk. But when you come into a place of business — where 
painting pictures and selling pictures is business — the less of that 
rot the better.” 

Fritz Hofmann, as he walked away, was debating a question in 
his mind — should he, or should he not, ask the Ketterings for 


58 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Miss Copley’s address? Wbat reason could there be why he 
should not openly demand the address, and openly announce his 
intention of delivering his mother’s message to the Hughes family 
in person ? There could be, of course, no valid objection against 
this ; but there was Miss Sally Stringer. Fritz told himself truly that 
he was not in the least afraid of Miss Stringer on his own account. 
In fact, he rather enjoyed a tilting match with her, caring not a 
straw for any verbal pricks which her sharp tongue was able to 
inflict on him. But he did not wish to run the risk of Miss 
Stringer’s harrying that gentle little governess. Sally would 
probably not intend deliberate cruelty. But in order thoroughly 
to enjoy the society of a porcupine, one should perhaps be either 
prickly or pachydermatous; and he felt sure that Barbara was 
neither. That face, which he had first seen by the flare of the 
street gaslight, belonged to a sensitive nature. 

Then, all at once, a way occurred to him by which it might be 
possible to find the Hugheses’ house without making any inquiries 
at all. Miss Copley walked home every Saturday evening along 
that crowded thoroughfare ; and Fritz thought he might so man- 
age as to be allowed on the following Saturday to walk home 
with her. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Christopher Dalton had not so entirely vanished out of the 
world with which he had been familiar but that his existence and 
whereabouts were known to a good many persons ; and latterly 
the fact had leaked out that he was making a large fortune in the 
United States. Had he sunk into abject poverty, no doubt there 
would have been very little said about him. But all the various 
ramifications of his family were naturally interested in a rich, 
childless kinsman, and liked to speak of him. 

Indeed, there was a large number of persons wholly uncon- 
nected with him who seemed to take great pleasure in hearing 
about Chris Dalton’s wonderful strokes of luck; his daring specu- 
lations which had turned up trumps; the exact number of thou- 
sands of acres which he was supposed to own in a district de- 
scribed with geographical vagueness as “ Somewhere out by the 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


59 


Rocky Mountains, you know and so on. They appeared to en- 
joy the mere suggestion of wealth which could never flow in their 
direction, much as a young lady with thirty pounds a year pin- 
money feasts her imagination on the description of the dresses at 
her majesty’s drawing-room. 

Had the circumstances of William Hughes’s life not secluded 
him from all society — save such exceptional and eccentric gather- 
ings as that held by Mortimer Hopkins — he might easily have 
chanced to hear Dalton’s name mentioned during the last two or 
three years. But, as we know, the sound of it came upon him 
suddenly, and from very unexpected lips. 

To the Ketterings the name of Chris Dalton had latterly be- 
come familiar, for Miss Sally Stringer claimed kindred with him. 
Miss Stringer called herself, and was called by every one, Mr. Philip 
Kettering’s cousin ; and they had been on cousinly terms together 
all their lives. But she was, in truth, not related to him by blood, 
being his uncle’s stepdaughter. With Dalton, however, her rela- 
tionship was undoubted — she was his first-cousin once removed. 

The Ketterings were wealthy, hospitable, and sociable — three 
strong recommendations to Miss Stringer’s favor; and she must 
be acquitted of appreciating them in any spirit of greed or self- 
interest, for she had an income of four or five hundred a year, 
which rendered her independent, and she neither expected, nor 
would have accepted, pecuniary assistance from any one. But so 
many of her friends and connections were moneyed people that — 
although considered among them, and considering herself, to be 
very poor — Sally had become accustomed to an atmosphere of 
wealth as one becomes accustomed to a warm climate, and did 
not willingly encounter the chill of less genial latitudes. 

Perhaps there is no rank of life in which the enjoyment of 
money is so thoroughly tested as in the prosperous mercantile 
class. Aristocratic families, even when they are rich, are ham- 
pered by a thousand claims and obligations of which trade knows 
nothing. They are like the dwellers in a country fertilized by an 
accurately adjusted system of irrigation, where every channel and 
runlet must have its share, and no more than its share. But the 
trader lives on the brink of a great river. And so long as he has 
strength and industry to dip his bucket, the flood is practically 
inexhaustible, and he may pour it wheresoever he chooses. 


60 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Mrs. Kettering and ber daughters had never known an hour’s 
anxiety about ways and means. If anxiety had ever come to 
Philip Kettering in that matter of holding his place at the river’s 
brink, and keeping his bucket water-tight, he had said nothing of 
it at home. 

lie was a good-looking, middle-aged man, tall and upright, and 
always well dressed. His manner was quiet and his voice soft — 
almost too soft, some persons said. But it was not a wheedling 
nor a servile softness. It was partly natural, and partly the re- 
sult of his resolution, to show the world that “that repose which 
stamps the caste of Yere de Vere” is no monopoly of high birth. 
He had never said exactly that to himself, but that was the truth 
as nearly as it can be conveyed in a few words. It was not that 
he was in the least ashamed of being in commerce. On the con- 
trary, he was proud of his position in the mercantile world ; and 
desirous that every one should perceive how entirely compatible 
are buying and selling with the most finished manners. “ There 
can be no doubt that there is more culture among the families of 
the best style of merchants than among any other class in the 
community,” he would say, thoroughly believing what he said. 
For the hereditary aristocracy he professed a little mild contempt. 
But his contempt did not go to the extent of wishing to differ 
from them in his outward demeanor ; and it is certain that he 
would not have been offended at being mistaken for a lord. 

The Ketterings were not usually to be found in London in 
September. They had been in Scotland in August, and had now 
returned to town, there to remain until it should suit Mr. Ketter- 
ing to take them to the Continent. It was proposed that Mrs. 
Kettering and her daughters should spend the winter abroad. 
Ida, the younger girl, had outgrown her strength, the doctor said, 
and needed sunshine, and the possibility of passing several hours 
of each day in the open air. Italy had, at first, been talked of, 
but none of the family had taken kindly to that idea. Italy was 
so far off! And to be compelled to lead a semi-invalid life among 
a totally unknown population, and unable to see any of the sights 
which tourists enjoy, would, Ida declared, be intolerably irksome. 
Switzerland would be far more gemuthlich. She knew Switzer- 
land. Many invalids, Russians and others, spent the winter on 
the shores of Lake Lucian. Did not Dr. Slocombe think that 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


61 


Montreux would do ? Dr. Slocombe pronounced that lie thought 
Montreux would do — at any rate, for October and November. 
Mrs. Kettering had begged that Sally Stringer might accompany 
them, having an idea that if she herself grew tired of remaining 
so long away from home, Sally might be induced to remain and 
look after Ida. And so the plan was arranged. 

Notwithstanding that it was now the end of September, and 
consequently “ not a soul was left in town,” Mrs. Kettering man- 
aged to find at any rate a few bodies to grace her board and eat 
her dinner, and some other bodies to assemble afterwards in her 
drawing-room on a certain evening close upon the end of the 
month. It was a sort of farewell entertainment. “ Of course one 
cannot think of giving a party just now ; but we are going to get 
Rosenheim to play for us after dinner. It would be very kind, if 
you would come in sans fapon” That was the sort of phrase in 
which Mrs. Kettering invited her guests. The dinner was to be 
equally informal. Ida, who was not supposed to be “out” yet, 
never appeared at any of the grand dinners given during the sea- 
son. But on this occasion she was present at table. 

The dinner-party consisted of ten persons. Of these, six be- 
longed to the family, counting Fritz Hofmann and Miss Stringer. 
The other four were a certain Lady Lambton, widow of a phy- 
sician who had been knighted on the occasion of the opening of 
a great provincial hospital ; Mr. Perikles Rhodonides, junior part- 
ner in a firm of Greek merchants; Herr Rosenheim, the violinist; 
and General Mullett, an elderly bachelor, who appreciated Mr. 
Kettering’s fine wines not too well, but wisely. 

Fritz found himself seated at table between Miss Stringer — 
whom he had had the honor of escorting — and his cousin Ida. 
The host had Sally on his left hand, and Lady Lambton on his 
right. Fritz was therefore not too far removed from the latter 
lady to enjoy some share of her conversation. 

Before saying a few necessary words about Lady Lambton, it 
should be stated that she and Hofmann had met a year ago, dur- 
ing a previous visit he had paid to the Ketterings; and there had 
sprung up a semi-sentimental flirtation between them. 

Lady Lambton was undoubtedly very handsome. Had her fig- 
ure been at all equal to her face, she might have ranked as a 
beauty of the first class. But she was rather lean and flat-chested. 


) 


62 THAT WILD WHEEL. 

Her arms were bony, and her hands and feet, although not large, 
were wanting in symmetry. Grace, whether of form or move- 
ment, was not her .strong point. But into her manner of dress- 
ing herself she did contrive to throw some grace. She was al- 
ways well, or at all events becomingly, attired, dissimulating too 
thin outlines with cloudy arrangements of black or white lace. 
And her abundant dark hair was massed artistically upon a small 
and well-shaped head. She had a brilliant brunette complexion, 
a delicate aquiline nose, black eyebrows and eyelashes, and deep- 
blue eyes. 

She was young, too ; not more than eight-and-twenty, although 
many of her friends declared her to be five or six years older — 
moved, probably, to this exaggeration by her own frequent allu- 
sions to having been married as a “ mere child,” and having been 
taken away from her school-books and her playfellows to preside 
over Dr. Lambton’s house. 

Her husband had been a provincial doctor in large practice. He 
had met her by chance in London, and had married her, an en- 
tirely portionless girl, out of a poor and struggling household, he 
being, although not old, some twenty years her senior ; and he had 
died after seven years of marriage, leaving her a childless widow 
with a small independence and the title of “ my lady.” 

She was a Londoner to the marrow of her bones, and the first 
use she made of her liberty was to leave the provincial metropolis 
where her husband’s money had been made, and establish herself 
in town. It had seemed to her at first to be a very great thing to 
be Lady Lambton ; and, taking into account her beauty, her quick 
brains, and her comfortable income, she had returned to London 
after her husband’s death full of crude and exaggerated notions 
as to the place she would now be able to take in society. But, 
being in truth quick-witted and observant, she soon discovered 
that she had been mistaken on several points. She did gain ad- 
mission into many houses, where, as Miss Amy Shortway, she 
would scarcely have been likely to be on visiting terms. But a 
physician’s widow with but a few hundreds a year was, she found, 
of no social importance whatever, as such. It was a poor satis- 
faction to dazzle her younger sisters, and stir the bile of old family 
acquaintances by her elegance and her title, when she paid a rare 
visit to her old home. That was not the world she lived in now. 


TIIAT WILD WHEEL. 


63 


She remembered very well thinking, in her early girlhood, that 
if she could cut out their neighbors, the attorney’s daughters, in 
the matter of bonnets, and arrive at a social status sufficiently ele- 
vated to overawe Mrs. Hardman’s caustic criticisms on “ the go- 
ings-on of young ladies nowadays,” she would never be weary of 
enjoying those triumphs. But the triumphs had come to her 
as the unlimited freedom to eat sweetmeats comes to an adult — 
the bonbons are there, but the childish greed for them has 
departed. 

Nevertheless, Amy Lambton had a sufficiently youthful appe- 
tite still for a great many pleasant things which the world could 
give her. She enjoyed, no doubt, being admired for her beauty ; 
but her most eager ambition was to be acknowledged as a woman 
of intellect. Not a strong-minded creature, wearing hideous 
clothes, and braving the jeers of men — by no means ; but some- 
thing in the style of Corinne or Aspasia, about both of whom her 
knowledge was, to say the best, hazy. She wanted to be rich, 
thinking that a solid gold background would throw into strong 
relief all her other attractions. And in so thinking she was prob- 
ably right. She would never, she told herself, make a merely 
mercenary marriage. But there could be no reason why she 
should be unable to love a rich man. Fritz Hofmann was rich — 
would be very rich. He was the only son of a prosperous mer- 
chant, and the prospective heir to a bachelor uncle. He had 
made legal studies, and was qualified to practise as an advocate in 
his native city. But it was out of the question that he should 
ever need to earn his bread. He was sufficiently good-looking, 
having a well-knit, manly figure, and a good-humored, intelligent 
face. And he had been evidently greatly struck by her charms. 
She might certainly do worse than marry Fritz Hofmann, par- 
ticularly as she remembered having been a little bit in love with 
him last year. 

“ Fritz,” said Mrs. Kettering from her place at the round table, 
“did you think about my commission about the mirror-frame?” 

“Yes, Aunt Gertrude. I went to Hopkins this morning. It 
will be attended to. He was all curiosity, and told me he had 
sold some pictures once to Uncle Philip. He didn’t say much 
about the paintings, but the frames, he assured me, were superb.” 

“ Sensible man,” said Miss Stringer. “ He talked of what he 


64 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


knew. People tell the shoemaker to stick to his last, and when 
he does, they laugh at him and sneer ‘ Nothing like leather !’ ” 

“ Mr. Hopkins, however, has not stuck to his last. He goes in 
for picture-dealing, and told me I was a connoisseur because I ad- 
mired a landscape he had in his shop.” 

“ By the way, Sally,” said Mr. Kettering, smiling blandly, and 
the least bit in the world condescendingly, at his cousin, “are you 
aware that you have the honor of being remotely — and perhaps 
not so very remotely — connected with this worthy Mr. John Hop- 
kins ?” 

“ Not at all aware of it. But Pm very glad, in that case, that 
he is a picture-dealer and not a picture-painter. Selling other 
people’s productions is a pretty safe pursuit, as I needn’t tell you , 
Philip; and I am not fond of poor relations.” 

“But what do you mean, Philip? You are joking, eh?” said 
Mrs. Kettering to her husband. 

“ Pardon me, my dear Gertrude. I hear that Mr. Hopkins’s 
late wife was own niece to Mr. Christopher Dalton.” 

“ What Dalton ? the man who is making such a pot of money 
out in America?” said General Mullett. “ You don’t say so ! He 
is a relative of yours, Miss Stringer, I am aware.” 

“ Rhodonides tells me,” said Mr. Kettering, “ that some young 
clerks in his house are full of the subject.” 

“ Oh yes,” assented Mr. Perikles Rhodonides, a handsome 
young man, with a rather silly mouth, and dressed with a fault- 
less perfection — especially as to his cravat and shirt-front — which 
seemed almost incompatible with the conditions of breathing and 
blood-circulating mortality. “ Yes ; our chief cashier tells me that 
Green and Toller are always talking about it. They know Hop- 
kins’s son. It’s quite an excitement among the clerks.” 

“ Why ? What is the excitement ?” asked Lady Lambton, lean- 
ing a little forward, and seeming to address the company gener- 
al lv. 

j 

Then Mr. Kettering took upon him to explain that Mr. Dalton 
was an eccentric individual who had greatly enriched himself by 
hazardous speculations ; who had been living a strange, lonely life 
among wild places and wild people ; and who was now stated to 
be in feeble health. 

“ Most interesting creature,” said Miss Stringer. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


65 


“ Ob, he must be !” answered Lady Lambton, with an earnest 
look in her deep-blue eyes. 

“ Very !” returned Sally, emphatically. “ We none of us know 
exactly how interesting — not within a hundred thousand dollars or 
so. But, taking him in round numbers, there can be no reason- 
able doubt of his being very interesting indeed.” 

After the ladies had withdrawn, the subject of Christopher 
Dalton’s fortunes was again discussed over some of Mr. Ketter- 
ing’s special Burgundy — always brought out in honor of General 
Mullett. 

“ He was always rather a loose fish,” said Mr. Kettering. 
“ There was an ugly story of his running away with a girl — ac- 
complished person, quite a lady — and her old father dying in con- 
sequence, or some terrible business or other. But it must have 
happened when I was a mere boy. I should never have heard 
anything of it — or of him — had it not been that my cousin, Miss 
Stringer, happens to be related to the man.” 

“ It’s pretty clear he will have no lack of relations,” observed 
General Mullett. “ By George, I shouldn’t mind having a ticket 
in that lottery myself.” 

“ Bah 1” said Rosenheim. “ I vould not think it vos vorth 
much, your ticket. He will turn out to haf married a squaw, and 
haf a brood of copper-colored pickaninnies ; and den every one 
vill be looking quite blue.” 

“ ’Pon my soul, do you know that’s uncommonly likely !” said 
Mr. Perikles Rhodonides, opening his mouth, which was generally 
slightly ajar, a little wider than usual, as he looked round on the 
violinist. 

“ Oh, I fancy the parties interested keep themselves pretty well 
informed,” said Mr. Kettering. 

“That’s true. That’s very true,” said Rhodonides. “I know 
from Toller that Hopkins — who seems to be uncommonly wide- 
awake — got a lot of information out of a man who saw Dalton 
recently in America.” 

“ At any rate, if he dies intestate — as is most likely with that 
wild kind of fellow — I should think there would be very pretty 
pickings for every one,” said General Mullett, rising from the table. 

“ Well, hang it, there must be, you know, eh?” exclaimed Rho- 
donides, cheerfully, as he and Fritz followed their seniors up-stairs, 
5 


66 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


In the drawing-room some of the evening guests had already 
arrived. There was a group of young people, with Olga and Ida 
among them, standing round the pianoforte. Lady Lambton 
looked across the room from her seat on a corner ottoman as the 
gentlemen entered, and her eyes rested on Fritz. He approached 
at once, and was rewarded by a smile and an invitation to seat 
himself beside her. But Fritz felt that the smile and the invita- 
tion conveyed nothing to flatter any tender sentiment which he 
might be disposed to indulge in. 

“I want to tell you an odd thing,” said her ladyship, eagerly. 
“ It was on my lips when they were talking about that man at 
dinner, but — The fact is, Miss Stringer has such a peculiar way 
of looking at things, and such a sharp manner of expressing her- 
self, that — ” 

“ Exactly,” said Fritz, nodding confidentially. 

“ Ah ! I see you understand. Well, but what I wanted to say 
is this : I believe that I also can claim kinship with Mr. Christo- 
pher Dalton! Isn’t it strange? I am almost sure I have heard 
mamma mention a relative of that name. I shall ask her to tell 
me all about it. Don’t say anything just now,” she added, as 
Fritz uttered an ejaculation of surprise. “ I don’t want Miss 
Stringer to pounce on me. There is Rosenheim going to play. 
Don’t you love music? But, of course you do. It is your birth- 
right as a German.” 

Herr Rosenheim approached the piano, fiddle in hand, and at 
the same moment the little group standing near it divided, reveal- 
ing a young girl in a very plain black dress seated at the instru- 
ment, ready to accompany the violinist. Fritz saw immediately 
that it was Miss Barbara Copley. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Rosenheim’s performance was received appreciatively. When 
it was over, he was observed to say something to the accompanist 
with a cordial smile, and to shake hands with her. 

“ How divine that slow movement was !” exclaimed Lady Lamb- 
ton, raising her handsome eyes enthusiastically. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


07 


“ And Miss Copley accompanied him beautifully,” said Ida 
Kettering, who had seated herself beside her ladyship to listen to 
the music. 

“ Charmingly !” assented Lady Lambton. 

“ Oh, you noticed it then ?” 

“ Of course I did !” 

“ I didn’t know whether you would. So few persons under- 
stand what the effect depends on, although they hear that it all 
sounds well.” 

“ You are speaking of persons quite ignorant of music, my dear 
Ida.” 

“ Oh no ; not quite ignorant. They just know a little,” re- 
turned Ida, in her matter-of-fact way. 

“I think I must congratulate Miss Copley on her performance, 
and tell her how highly I approve it,” said Fritz. 

“Oh, Du Fritz! The idea of your announcing your approba- 
tion !” cried Ida, laughing, as her cousin moved away across the 
drawing-room. 

“Why should not Mr. Hofmann express his admiration? I 
have no doubt it will be valued,” said Lady Lambton, raising her 
voice just a little, so that it might reach the ears of the retreating 
Fritz. 

“ Goodness, Lady Lambton ! Fritz does not know one tune 
from another.” 

“ Mr. Hofmann doesn’t — ? But, how ? Why, I thought that, 
of course, as a cultivated German — ” 

“ Oh, that’s nothing ! Lots of people on the Continent think 
all the English eat their meat raw ; but we don’t, you know.” 

“But I have been talking about music to Mr. Hofmann for 
ever so long, and I thought he appeared interested.” 

“ I suppose he just listened out of politeness,” answered Ida, 
gravely nodding her head. 

Meanwhile Fritz had made his bow to Miss Copley, who re- 
mained seated quite alone at the pianoforte. “ I did not know I 
was to have the pleasure of meeting you this evening, Miss Cop- 
ley,” he said, after waiting a second or two for a word from her. 
But she had merely bent her head in acknowledgment of his bow. 

“ Mrs. Kettering engaged me to accompany Ilcrr Rosenheim,” 
answered Barbara. 


G8 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Fritz understood the touch of pride in her anxiety not to ap- 
pear under any false pretence. 

“Very lively for Rosenheim! So far as I can judge by his 
gratified demeanor, that is to say. I am an outer barbarian as 
regards music myself.” 

There was something so frank and cordial in his manner that 
Barbara’s reserve melted before it. She was not reserved bv 
nature ; but sensitive persons in a position like hers learn, by 
painful experience, to shrink from the chance of a rough touch, 
whether careless or cruel. Besides, in the case of Mr. Hofmann, 
Barbara felt some especial constraint — she could not forget the 
story of her mother’s youth, and she could not help wondering 
whether he would ever know that she herself belonged to the 
Hughes family. 

His next words decided that question. 

“ I think, Miss Copley,” he said, “ that I am charged with a 
message for a relative of yours. Do you not live under the care 
of a lady and gentleman named Hughes ?” 

“ My uncle and grandaunt are Mr. and Miss Hughes.” 

“ Formerly of Marypool ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“You must know that my mother is an Englishwoman, and a 
native of Marypool. I had a letter from her the other day, 
charging me with many remembrances to — to the Hughes family.” 
(Fritz was, in fact, very vague as to which member or members of 
that family his mother had ever been personally acquainted with.) 
“ I wonder if Miss Hughes would allow me to present them in 
person ?” 

Barbara hesitated. She was uncertain how Aunt Judith would 
receive such a proposition. Before she could decide on what 
answer to make, a voice, speaking very close to her, said : 

“You must let me say how much I appreciated your delight- 
ful accompaniment to Herr Rosenheim’s playing.” And, turning 
her head, she saw Lady Lambton standing beside the piano. 

“You are very kind,” she answered, with a slight flush of sur- 
prise, for she had met Lady Lambton once or twice before, and 
had not received any notice from her. 

“ Not kind at all ! Only I have an artistic fibre which responds 
to every touch of Art.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


69 


Barbara, not knowing what to say to this announcement, said 
nothing. 

“ I have been complimenting Miss Copley on her performance,” 
said Fritz, gravely. 

Lady Lambton shot an interrogative glance at him. Perhaps 
Ida had been merely hoaxing her, in silly schoolgirl fashion. 

“ Of course, you are devoted to music?” she said, smiling a lit- 
tle, so that her words might pass for having been spoken jesting- 
ly, if necessary. 

“ Devoted ! H’m ! Well, I should not venture to declare my- 
self absolutely devoted to music. I should keep that word for — 
other things.” And he made a little bow in her ladyship’s 
direction. 

By this time Miss Stringer, on General Mullett’s arm, had 
joined the group at the piano, and was observing them all with 
her sharpest glances. 

“ Is Lady Lambton going to favor us with a musical perform- 
ance?” inquired General Mullett, gallantly. 

“ Oh no ! I play a good deal for my own private delectation ; 
but I should not dream of playing before an assembly of stran- 
gers.” 

“ I think you are quite right,” said Miss Stringer, emphatically. 
“ I wish more people had the sense to keep their unfinished at- 
tempts to themselves.” 

“ Oh, it is simply that I have not the nerve for it, Miss String- 
er. As for the rest, I have been very thoroughly taught, and I 
studied at one time very enthusiastically.” 

“ Oh ! Well, it is much better to be an angel who fears to 
tread than a fool who rushes in, isn’t it?” 

“ Perhaps you sing, Lady Lambton ?” suggested General Mul- 
lett. 

“Do you know,” said Lady Lambton, dropping her voice con- 
fidentially, “it is an odd thing to say, but my sensitive ear pre- 
vents me from singing ! I am so exquisitely and painfully alive 
to the least little fault of intonation that I positively writhe 
under it. Such a trifle, you know, may cause a note to be some- 
thing less than quite true — a shade that scarcely any one would 
notice. But I should be aware of it in myself, and it would par- 
alyze me.” 


70 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ Dear me ! That is very unfortunate,” said General Mullett, 
solemnly. 

“ Never heard of anything so unfortunate !” put in the ruthless 
Sally. “ It’s as if a cook couldn’t make pies because she had too 
light a hand for pastry !” 

Lady Larnbton slipped behind the piano, and let herself sink 
into a seat close to Barbara. “ I have come to take refuge,” she 
said, playfully, with an arch look up at Fritz, who was still stand- 
ing there. 

“Refuge?” 

“ From our friend Miss Stringer’s conversation. It is a little 
overpowering sometimes.” 

“Perhaps it is. But I rather like Sally. I think she is what 
you call ‘good fun.’” 

“ She is not by any means what I call good fun, I assure you.” 

“ Oh, if you knew her better, I think you would like her.” 

“You will allow me to doubt that. But I beg your pardon, I 
forgot. She is a sort of relation of yours.” 

“ She is rather a sort of relation of yours , if your idea about 
your kinship with the millionnaire is correct.” 

“ Good gracious, so she is !” exclaimed Lady Larnbton, clasping 
her hands. “ I never thought of that ! Really it seems that 
every second person one meets now is a cousin of the millionnaire, 
as you call him. What a blessing to be able to turn to Art and 
Poetry, and so escape from all these sordid speculations ! I 
don’t understand how people exist who have no resources of that 
kind.” 

“ Oh, we jog on in our lower place, contentedly enough.” 

“Now, Mr. Hofmann! You don’t mean to include yourself 
in that category ? I shall think you are fishing for a compli- 
ment.” 

“ Then pray do not let me fish in vain.” 

“ Ah, no, no ; Art and Poetry, and all that, is a subject on 
which I feel very deeply. But one dare not speak of one’s feel- 
ings to most people. The world is very hard and very flippant. 
And we English, in particular, seem to be so absurdly ashamed 
of having any sentiment !” 

“That is a point you must settle with your own countrymen. 
My withers are unwrung.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


1l 


“ But have you no affectation of that sort ? Are you sure ? 
Now, as to music : Ida says — But I cannot believe that with 
your German culture and training you have no delight in music. 
Tell the truth now, on } T our honor !” 

“Oh, if you adjure me so solemnly, I must confess that al- 
though I really have no ear, in a musical sense, yet I do enjoy a 
certain kind of singing — singing full of dramatic expression. 
The words do produce a greater effect on me when uttered to 
music than if they were simply spoken. If you can call that ap- 
preciating music, so far I do appreciate it.” 

All this time Barbara had sat by, silent and unnoticed ; but 
now Lady Lambton all at once addressed her. “ I envy you, Miss 
Copley,” said her ladyship, “ your power of using your musical 
gift at will. I suffer so sadly from nervousness that my music is 
practically of no use to me in society, although at home I play 
and sing for hours.” 

“ But perhaps you get more enjoyment from it in that way,” 
said Barbara, gently. 

“Oh, I dare say I do — yes. But, still — it is not that one 
wants praise, but sympathy. To see one’s own feeling reflected 
in the eyes of a friend ! That is the sort of pleasure I should 
get from an audience if I could have courage to perform before 
an audience. One person who thoroughly felt with me would 
suffice if I — Why, where is Mr. Hofmann ?” she added, abruptly. 

“ He is over there, talking to Olga and Mrs. Kettering,” said 
Barbara. 

“ Oh, I was not aware that he had moved away. Had you 
known him before ?” 

“ I had only seen Mr. Hofmann here during the last week or 
two.” 

“Oh ! I fancied as I came up to the piano that I heard him 
saying something about an old acquaintance.” 

“ His mother knew my grandfather’s family many years ago.” 

“ I see. Miss Copley, do you ever take engagements as a 
repetiteuse — just to accompany songs when one is learning them, 
I mean ?” 

“ I have never had such an engagement, but I should like it 
very much indeed.” 

“ Should you ? Then I hope you will come to me twice or 


12 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


thrice a week. I am sure we shall get on well together. I liked 
your face from the first moment I saw you ; and I am a devout 
believer in first impressions.” 

“ Thank you, Lady Lambton. But about hours and — and 
terms ?” 

“Oh, we will settle all that by letter. Write to me; and 
meanwhile I will look up my engagements and see what days I 
have free. It will be delightful. I am sure you will understand 
me. We are, at any rate, kindred souls about music, I know.” 

Then she glided away, leaving Barbara much cheered by this 
unexpected chance of employment, and very grateful to Lady 
Lambton for having thought of offering it to her. 

As Lady Lambton approached the part of the room where 
Fritz and his cousin Olga were standing, surrounded by a few of 
the younger guests, the former was struck by the bright glow of 
excitement on the handsome widow’s face. 

“ You look terribly dazzling to-night,” he said lightly, but with 
a good deal of real admiration under the light tone. “ You must 
have been meditating some dreadful mischief to make you so ra- 
diant.” 

“Must I? I don’t think what I have been meditating is so 
very wicked. I have only been conspiring with Miss Copley to 
help me a little with my singing.” 

“ Are you going to have lessons from Miss Copley, Lady 
Lambton ?” said Olga. “ Oh, I’m so glad !” 

“ Not lessons exactly, my dear Olga. I am going to employ 
Miss Copley as accompanist.” 

“ That was a kind thought,” said Fritz, looking more admiring 
than ever. 

“ I fancied I had heard that an engagement would be welcome 
to her,” replied Lady Lambton, smiling benevolently. “And she 
is a very interesting creature, and has music in her soul.” 

At the end of the meeting, Fritz put Lady Lambton into the 
hired brougham that was waiting for her and bade her “good- 
night” with a somewhat longer and closer pressure of the hand 
than mere friendship demanded; and, as she leaned back in the 
carriage, Amy was thinking of the young man with an agreeable 
glow of feeling. But she was not so absorbed in thinking of Mr. 
Frederick Hofmann but that her mind reverted more than once 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


73 


to the subject of the wealthy and eccentric Christopher Dalton ; 
and she felt impatient to question her mother about him. 

Fritz, meanwhile, returned into the hall of Mr. Kettering’s 
house just in time to see Miss Copley, muffled in a big cloak, 
leaving it on the arm of a shabbily dressed man, whom he rightly 
conjectured to be lier uncle. He then remembered that he had 
obtained neither Miss Hughes’s address nor permission to call on 
her. He was a little vexed, too, at having lost the opportunity 
of making William Hughes’s acquaintance. “But, perhaps,” said 
he to himself, “ it would not have been a good moment. The 
address I can easily get, and as to the permission to call, it would 
be a pure formality. The old lady will be pleased enough, no 
doubt, to be remembered by my mother, and to receive my 
mother’s son.” 


CHAPTER X. 

It is a common experience that we may often obtain a new 
light upon a character by observing it among new surroundings. 
But the most valuable help in studying the real nature of any in- 
dividual is obtained by knowing something of his early home. 
It is here that we find the elucidation of many otherwise inex- 
plicable traits ; just as a naturalist is enabled to understand many 
structural peculiarities by acquaintance with the creature’s original 
habitat. If one had never heard of the desert, the camel would 
be a hopelessly puzzling animal. 

It would be highly uncivil to compare Lady Amy Lambton 
with so ugly a beast as the camel ; and it would be an exaggera- 
tion to describe her as “ hopelessly puzzling,” even to those who 
had never seen her in her home. Nevertheless, persons unac- 
quainted with the Shortway family missed the key to a consider- 
able part of her character. 

Mr. Maurice Shortway had been for many years connected, in 
a subordinate capacity, with one of the great daily journals ; and 
he wrote art criticisms for any periodical which would pay for 
them. He was a hard-working man who had brought up a 
numerous family of daughters not without struggle and difficulty. 


74 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Amy was the beauty of the family, and her marriage was con- 
sidered to be a great piece of good fortune for herself and all be- 
longing to her. As to herself, she had indeed done very well. 
But her marriage could not be said to have benefited the rest to 
any appreciable extent. However, they had struggled on, in 
some inexplicable fashion ; steering their way between the shoals 
of poverty and the rocks of debt with a little luck, considerable 
industry on Mr. Shortway’s part, and on the part of his wife a 
good deal of that elastic kind of fortitude which consists chiefly 
in “ never-minding.” 

Things were now going better with them than in the days 
when Amy lived at home. The second daughter had married, 
and was prospering in America. Mr. Shortway had been engaged 
as sub-editor of a monthly periodical devoted to artistic topic, 
and was able to carry on this occupation without giving up his 
work at the newspaper office. Mrs. Shortway had an excellent 
tenant for the first floor of their house in Gower Street; and of 
the three remaining daughters, one was engaged as resident 
teacher in a school, while the two younger ones were studying 
drawing with a view to earning their bread by it by and by. 

To the dingy old house Lady Lambton drove in a cab, about 
eleven o’clock in the forenoon of the day following Mrs. Ketter- 
ing’s dinner-party. 

“ Now, mamma,” she said, cutting short her mother’s exclama- 
tions of surprise and pleasure at seeing her, “ I want to ask you a 
question. The answer may be very important, and — ” 

“Yes; but now do sit down and take your bonnet off, Amy! 
You’ll have lunch with us, won’t you? Papa isn’t down yet; he 
was at the office till past four o’clock this morning. But he’ll be 
here presently, and the girls will be home to lunch. Now do 
take your bonnet off! You mustn’t run away in your usual 
fashion. It isn’t often I get you all to myself for a few minutes.” 

“ That is just why I want you to answer my question without 
loss of time, now that we are alone together.” 

“To be sure ! But there is no such desperate hurry, after all. 
I must go and tell the cook — No, no; I am not going to 
order a ‘grand luncheon’ for you! Nothing of the sort. But 
you must have something to eat, I suppose ? Now don’t be dis- 
agreeable, Amy.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


75 


And Mrs. Sbortway bustled out of the room in spite of her 
daughter’s protestations. 

It was evidently from her mother that Lady Lambton inherited 
her good looks. Mrs. Shortway must have been remarkably 
handsome in her youth, and was still a striking-looking woman ; 
only in the forenoon her hair was apt to be a little untidy, and 
her gown to lack a button or so, and her slippers to be down at 
heel. Mrs. Shortway was the cheerfullest of slaves to her chil- 
dren, whom she admired unstintingly, and carried her complai- 
sance towards them to the point of reflecting in her own person — 
so far as she was able — all her daughters’ shifting views on dress 
as well as other matters. While Amy had reigned at home, some 
attempt was always made to follow the prevailing fashion of the day. 
But Blanche and Eleanor approved a more picturesque style ; 
and in these latter years Mrs. Shortway’s comely person had been 
arrayed after a great variety of “ aesthetic ” models. Since it was 
not always possible to buy new garments, the old ones were 
metamorphosed as well as might be, with, sometimes, a curious 
survival in the form of a sleeve, and so on, to mark the transition. 

When her mother had left the room, Amy sat down in the 
well-known front parlor, with an impatient shrug and a sudden 
frown. But by degrees her face cleared as she looked around her, 
and observed signs of greater prosperity, and also of greater 
neatness and order, than she remembered in the home of her girl- 
hood. There were some pretty sketches and engravings on the 
walls, and a bowl full of flowers on the table ; and, besides these 
adornments, there was the substantial improvement of a new car- 
pet on the floor. “ I suppose Blanche and Eleanor look after the 
house a little,” said Amy to herself. “ But there must be more 
money, too, to buy things. I am so glad for poor papa !” 

As a matter of fact, although Mr. Shortway labored industri- 
ously to support his family, yet all the immediate and self-sacri- 
ficing efforts made for Amy’s pleasure, comfort, or caprice, had 
been made by her mother. Nevertheless, it was on her father’s 
account that she chiefly rejoiced in the improved fortunes of her 
family. But Maurice Shortway’s toils and struggles had always 
been held up for admiration, and his reserved and quiet manner 
inspired a certain respect in his daughters; whereas his wife bore 
her share of the troubles so jauntily that they almost seemed (to 


7G 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


the looker-on) to be no troubles at all ; and a demeanor less dig- 
nified than hers is seldom met with. So true it is that the man- 
ner of most of our actions is more influential with our fellow- 
creatures than the matter. And also that, as the Italian proverb 
has it, “ Whoso turns himself into a sheep, the wolf will eat him.” 
To be sure he will ! Such is the nature of wolves. 

When Mrs. Shortway returned, breathless and smiling, and 
seated herself on the sofa beside her daughter, the latter caught 
hold of her arm, to prevent any chance of her suddenly escaping, 
and said, “ Now, mamma, you must listen and answer to the point. 
Had you not a relation? — Christopher Dalton? ’ 

“ Christopher Dalton ! Good gracious, Amy, what can you 
want to know about him ?” 

“ But had you, mamma ?” 

“ Christopher Dalton ! Why, it must be five-and-twenty, or 
perhaps nearer thirty, years since I have heard his name !” 

“ Not quite that, for you mentioned it to me yourself — I am 
sure you did.” 

“ Oh, very likely. I suppose I was talking about the old 
times ?” 

“ Of course you were ! Well, he was your relation, then ?” 

“Relation? Yes, indeed, he was my own first-cousin.” 

“ No ! Really, mamma? That’s quite a near relation !” 

“ Well, pretty near. But what in the world has put Christo- 
pher Dalton into your head now ?” 

Amy hesitated. She was half unwilling to trust her mother 
with the information she had gained last night — not from fear of 
any specific mischief which Mrs. Shortway could do, but because 
her mother was apt to go off at a tangent, and to build castles in 
the air at a moment’s notice. However, after a very brief pause, 
she answered, “ Everybody was talking about him at a dinner 
party where I was last night, and — ” 

“About Chris Dalton?” (in a tone of measureless astonish- 
ment). 

“ Yes ; he is very rich, and he has neither wife nor child, and 
all his relations, near and distant, are looking after his money,” 
said Amy, rapidly, to prevent another interruption. “So now 
you know why I am interested in hearing all you can tell me of 
him.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


11 


“ Very rich, is he? Well, that depends on what one calls rich, 
lie was always very comfortably off — far more than our branch 
of the family.” 

“ No — no — no,” cried Amy, impatiently. “ There is no ques- 
tion of being ‘comfortably off!’ Everybody calls him rich. 
Some people say he is a millionnaire !” 

Mrs. Shortway shook her head. “ I shall be very slow to be- 
lieve that, Amy,” she said. “ You had better wait for very good 
authority before accepting it, my dear.” 

Amy had dreaded her mother’s easily raised hopes and sanguine 
enthusiasm. But she now found her temper chafed by the exact 
reverse. “ I tell you it is quite certain,” she said, irritably ; “ and 
I am sure you can have no real reason to doubt it.” 

“Oh, my dear, I knew Chris Dalton when I was a girl. He 
was a grown man then. He is ten or twelve years older than I 
am. We were never exactly intimate with his people, because 
the Daltons rather looked down on us. My parents were much 
poorer, and were in a different position altogether. Still, my 
mother was his aunt — Mrs. Dalton’s own sister ; and I knew all 
about Chris Dalton at that time ; and he was the very last person 
I should ever have expected to turn into a millionnaire !” 

“ But why — why , mamma ?” 

“ Well, because — How was he to get riches? As to earning 
them — Chris was a sort of amateur Admirable Crichton, and had 
a dilettante smattering of all sorts of things. But as to earning 
money, if you had ever known him you would see that that is a 
wild idea. To be sure, he might have inherited. But who was 
there likely to leave him a fortune? — and his wife had no money. 
I really should be very cautious of believing that story, Amy.” 

“ Good gracious, mamma, how extraordinary you are ! I tell 
you everybody believes it — business people ; sharp people, whose 
interest it is to find out the truth; and Mr. Dalton has not earned 
his money nor inherited it either. He has made it by lucky 
speculations in America.” 

“ Well — well, my dear, don’t be vexed. It can’t matter to us, 
after all.” 

Amy eagerly endeavored to show that it might, on the con- 
trary, matter to them a great deal. She recapitulated what she 
had heard at the Ketterings’ of Mr. Dalton’s weak health and 


78 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


lonely position in the world ; and all that had been said about 
the disposition of his property in case he should die without leav- 
ing a will. 

But even this failed to rouse Mrs. Shortway to enthusiasm. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ don’t imagine that we should have much 
chance. There are too many other claimants before us.” 

“ Who are they, mamma ? That’s exactly what I want to know. 
Now we may get at something practical !” 

It was not possible to elicit any information from Mrs. Short- 
way in a clear and succinct form. But, by degrees, Amy drew 
from her all that she knew about the surviving members of Chris- 
topher Dalton’s family. Of near relatives, she believed there would 
only be the children of his two sisters. The eldest sister, Chris- 
topher’s favorite, had made a most imprudent marriage with a sub- 
altern in a line regiment, had fallen into poverty and misfortune, 
and had disappeared entirely from the family horizon. (“ That,” 
thought Amy, “ must have been the mother of Mrs. Hopkins, and 
the grandmother of the young man, Mortimer, whom they were 
talking about at the Ketterings’.”) But she made no remark 
aloud. The second sister, Mrs. Kirby, was the wife of a fashion- 
able physician, and had had several children. Dr. Kirby had 
quarrelled violently with his brother-in-law. Dalton had behaved 
very ill — had eloped with a young woman who was employed in 
Dr. Kirby’s family, and there was a complete breach between 
them. 

“Oh, then,” cried Amy eagerly, “the Kirbys will be out of the 
running. He’s not likely to leave them anything.” 

“ I don’t know about that, my dear. But if he dies without a 
will, I should think they must be his nearest living relations.” 

After a little silent consideration, during which her mother was 
making conversational excursions in various unexpected directions, 
Amy suggested that Mrs. Shortway should write a letter to her 
cousin, Mr. Dalton, expressive in a general way of kindly family 
feeling, and setting forth how pleased she had recently been to hear 
good news of her long-absent relative. 

“But, my dear, that would be nonsense. Chris would see through 
that in a moment. We never were particularly fond of one another. 
And after so many years! He would know I was only looking 
after his money.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


79 


“ Well, and if he did know it ? It would be very natural. And 
it isn’t as if you were approaching him as a beggar. You want 
nothing of him — nothing immediate , I mean. If he guessed that 
you thought some of the wealth he will leave behind him ought to 
come to your children, he would guess right. And, being a man of 
the world, he would think you were acting like a sensible woman.” 

Mrs. Shortway shook her head helplessly. “I’m afraid I 
couldn’t do it, Amy,” she said. “ I shouldn’t have the least idea 
how to set about it.” 

“ Not if I sketched out the rough draft of the letter for you, 
mamma?” 

“ I don’t know. I — I’m afraid Chris would see that it wasn’t 
me” began Mrs. Shortway, hesitatingly. Then, suddenly struck 
by a bright idea, she exclaimed, “ But why not write to him your- 
self, Amy ?” 

“ I, mamma?” 

“Yes, you. You would be able to put it so nicely. And, really, 
it wouldn’t look so — so dreadfully mean, you know, as if I were 
to suddenly turn affectionate after all these years.” 

“ I see no meanness in the matter, mamma.” 

“ No, no, dear ; of course not. But Chris Dalton might,” 
answered Mrs. Shortway, quite innocent of irony. 

The suggestion thus made speedily commended itself to Lady 
Lambton. With a rapid forecast, she saw herself an object of in- 
terest in the life of the lonely old man — lonely and an exile in the 
midst of his riches. He might even be induced by the charm of 
her letters to come to England. It would doubtless gratify him to 
find at least one of his relatives in a good social position, possessed 
of culture and various attractive qualities, and addressed as “ my 
lady.” There might be a good deal of romance about her relation 
towards Mr. Dalton — something at once filial and friendly, while 
his sentiments towards her would be pervaded by that general 
aroma of admiration for a charming woman without which any 
masculine regard would seem to her flat and uninteresting. 

Amy’s sanguine fancies moved as fast, and flew as far afield as 
those of the Arabian Alnaschar. But there was no present fear of 
her kicking over any basket of crockery in the ecstasy of anticipa- 
tion. One could barely at a moderate speed have counted ten 
between Mrs. Shortway’s last words and her daughter’s reply, 


80 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


spoken with an air of reflective candor, “ Well, mamma, if you 
really think I ought to write to him, I will try.” 

Presently Mr. Shortway appeared — a pale little man, with pale 
thin hair brushed over the top of his bald head, and pale-blue eyes. 
Ilis manner was very quiet; but its quietude, when one observed it 
closely, was rather tolerant than meek. lie received his daughter 
affectionately, but without any of the warm enthusiasm which his 
wife had displayed; and he talked of himself, of his new engage- 
ment, its responsibilities, emoluments, and importance, instead of 
discussing, as Mrs. Shortway had done (when she was permitted to 
leave the topic of Christopher Dalton), Amy’s amusements and 
occupations — the new gowns Amy had bought for the autumn, 
and the society in which Amy would have the pleasure of display- 
ing them. 

Cj 

“ I only hope you won’t work yourself to death, papa,” said 
Amy, while her mother had gone down to the kitchen to assist 
the cook, and was burning her face over the preparation of an 
extra dish for luncheon in honor of Lady Lambton. And then 
just before the repast was put on the table, Blanche and Eleanor 
came home. 

These younger daughters resembled their father rather than 
their mother. Nevertheless, they were not without personal at- 
tractions. They had well-grown figures and fair skins; while 
their hair, if somewhat colorless, was glossy and abundant, and 
their light-blue eyes were bright with the radiance of youth. 
They greeted their sister with many expressions of surprise at 
her unexpected visit, which her ladyship interpreted into a re- 
proach. And she proceeded, somewhat haughtily, to explain 
that it was imppssible for her to be very frequently in Gower 
Street. But in t 4 h the girls had not intended to be reproach- 
ful. They were :r from envying Lady Lambton’s lot in life, 
and far from being dissatisfied with their own. 

Blanche, perhaps, hankered a little, now and then, after Lady 
Lambton’s fashionable, though unsesthetic, gowns and bonnets; 
and might not have been indisposed to try the society of “ smart ” 
and rich people just by way of a change from shabbiness and the 
higher artistic culture. T who held severe and lofty 

theories about art with l< - ^.omising dogmatism of her 

seventeen years, would 1 .orned to change places for a day 





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81 


with any Philistine whose creed involved a lax tolerance of trivial 
prettiness. 

They all chatted together cheerfully during luncheon. And 
Amy observed with satisfaction that her mother made no allusion 
to Mr. Dalton. It was well, for the present, to avoid the risk of 
raising false hopes in the girls. Of course papa would be told by 
and by. It was really wonderful, though, that mamma showed 
so much discretion. Perhaps she had for the moment forgotten 
all about their rich relation. It was quite like mamma to do so. 
Mamma was so discursive, and so seldom got a firm grasp of any 
subject. 

But while these thoughts were passing through her mind, she 
was able to follow the conversation going on around her, and to 
show some good-natured interest in it. She told herself, with con- 
siderable approval, that her interest was good-natured. So long as 
she was away from them she felt very kindly towards her sisters, 
and made projects of having one of them to stay with her some 
day, and of putting them in the way of marrying well. But each 
time that she came back into the home circle she was repelled by 
the absorbing interest they displayed in their own lives, quite 
apart from hers ! They did not seem to long for her society at 
all. It was doubtless a good thing that they should be contented 
with their inferior position in the world. But it was a little ir- 
ritating to find them apparently unaware that it was inferior. At 
this very moment they were talking of some delightful reunions 
at the studio of a person who lived near Tottenham Court Road 
with as much complacency as though they were given by the most 
fashionable and distinguished artist in Kensington. 

“ Are you girls taking lessons of this Mrs. Green ?” inquired 
Lady Lambton, affably. 

Eleanor set herself to explain, with dignity, that Mrs. Green was 
not qualified to teach such adorned students as Blanche and her- 
self. But the great schools of art being now closed for the va- 
cation, Mrs. Green (who was herself only a flower-painter) allowed 
a class of young ladies to use her studio for the purpose of draw- 
ing from life. 

“ It is a capital arrangement,” put in Mrs. Shortway. “ It not 
only saves money — for the price of the model divided among 
them all comes to very little — but it gives them delightful society. 

6 


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They meet most interesting people there on Saturday afternoons, 
don’t you, dears ?” 

“ It’s going to be something special next Saturday,” said 
Blanche. “ Mrs. Green’s studio neighbor, Mr. Hughes, is going 
away, and she is to have the use of his studio while he is gone, 
and there will be more room. She has iuvited a very clever 
friend of hers — a painter who lives at Florence. And we are to 
have some Shakespearian recitations. And Mrs. Green says her 
nephew is coming; he writes poetry. And his friend Mr. Morti- 
mer Hopkins will be there too.” 

“ Hopkins !” exclaimed Amy, suddenly, with a quick look of 
mortification. “ What Hopkins ? Do you know them ?” 

“ We have met Mr. Mortimer Hopkins once or twice at Mrs. 
Green’s. His father is a picture-dealer,” answered Eleanor. 

“ Do you know Hopkins, Amy ?” inquired Mr. Shortway. 

“// — oh dear, no! But I have heard him spoken of at the 
house of a friend of mine who has, I believe, bought a picture 
from him.” 

“ Ah ! Yes ; he has come a little into notice of late in certain 
quarters,” said Mr. Shortway, nodding his head majestically. 

Lady Lambton congratulated herself as she drove homeward 
on having had the presence of mind to keep her own counsel 
about what she knew of Mortimer Hopkins’s parentage. “ The 
girls chatter so familiarly to all these twopenny people — Green, 
and Heaven knows who !” she said to herself. Then she bearan, 
mentally, to compose a letter to Mr. Christopher Dalton. “ Well, 
I have got some information worth having by going to mamma,” 
she reflected. “ How very odd of her to take so little interest in 
her cousin ! But there never was any one so unpractical as 
mamma.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

The sunshine of a bright October morning was lighting up 
Lake Leman and its shores, near to the town of Vevey. The 
varied foliage showed all gradations of tint, from pale lemon, 
through orange and crimson, to bronze. And in the background 


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83 


the green darkness of pine forests stretched in velvety softness up 
the higher slopes. The air was still and clear, and the shining 
mirror of the lake gave back the autumn landscape — the distant 
mountains, the buildings draped with reddened leaves of the 
Virginia creeper, and the pale, turquoise blue of the sky, where 
a few white clouds hung high and motionless. All at once, with 
a wild, melancholy cry, a great swan rose and flew a few yards 
on, flapping powerful wings ; then, dropping, furrowed the glassy 
water, and shivered the smooth reflections as it oared itself 
along. 

William Hughes stood beside the lake, and looked across it. 
Ilis shoes were powdered with the white dust of the roads, for, 
early as was the hour, he had already walked some distance, stop- 
ping now and then to consider a point of view, climbing up a 
slope to some farm-house embowered in walnut-trees, or scram- 
bling across the miniature ravine made by a mountain brook, whose 
pebbly bed was now dry and parched after the hot summer. He 
had been assiduously seeking a spot from which to make his first 
sketch, and now stood leaning on his stick, and contemplating the 
landscape with a painter’s eyes — eyes to which the landscape says 
more and less than to the mere nature-lover. 

The latter will be less keen to recognize subtle harmonies of 
color, flowing grandeur or delicate grace of line; but he will sur- 
render himself more absolutely to the emotion of the moment. 
Nature will not speak to him so artistically, but he will hear the 
sound of her voice as one hears the sound of the sea. 

William Hughes at length shifted his stick from his left hand 
to his right, slowly nodded his head once or twice, like one who 
has taken a decision, and walked onward. 

The boarding-house kept by Madame Martin, whither he was 
going, was at a considerable distance from the town of Vevey. It 
stood back from the lake, and did not command a particularly 
fine view. Indeed, nothing about it was particularly fine. But 
then, as poor Madame Martin had formerly tried to convince her 
inmates, the price was in strict accordance with the quality of the 
article paid for. 

Long experience, however, of the kind of people who chiefly 
made up her connection had induced her to abandon this honest 
and simple appeal to facts. She now usually declared to her 


84 


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boarders that the Pension Monplaisir offered more attractions than 
the great hotels, at half the cost. No one, probably, was deceived 
for one moment by this statement. But many persons cherished 
the fond idea that their neighbors would accept it as a reason for 
their going to Monplaisir rather than to Trois Couronnes. “ We 
like the quiet of this place so much better than the bustle of 
those great, noisy hotels,” Mrs. Smith would say to Mrs. Jones. 
And the latter would reply that, for her part, she considered the 
company at certain great tables d'hote to be sadly mixed, and not 
such as she could willingly see around her daughters. And so that 
little flavor of a lie, which Bacon says “ doth ever add pleasure,” 
continued to spice the fare at Monplaisir, to the general content- 
ment. 

It was still early in the forenoon when William Hughes arrived 
at the Pension — a square, bare, stuccoed house, with an enclosure in 
front of it, where a pebbly path wound its way among plots of rank 
herbage much in need of the shears, and where a few spindly 
acacias and a lilac bush or two, dignified by the name of shrub- 
bery, imperfectly masked some offices and an outhouse at one end 
of the main building. 

Mr. Hughes opened a gate in the wooden fence, walked along 
the pebbly path to the house door, which stood wide open, and 
stepping within the threshold, looked about him for a bell or some 
other means of announcing himself to the household. A long 
passage running through the house divided the ground-floor into 
two equal parts. The door of a back room on the right hand was 
opened, and a woman's face appeared reconnoitring the stranger. 
After a moment’s inspection, the owner of the face came forward, 
exclaiming, 

“ Why, dear laws, bless me, if it isn’t Mr. Hughes, I declare !” 
and with outstretched hand invited him to enter. 

“I almost wonder that you recognized me, Madame Martin,” 
said Hughes, shaking hands with her. 

“ Oh, dear me, yes, sir ! I couldn’t fail to recognize you ; for 
though I have not seen you since years and years, still you have 
the family countenance, and I remember your father so well — the 
dear gentleman ! Please to walk into my little den. You will not 
mind, will you? We can talk quietly there.” 

So saying, Madame Martin led the way into the back room 


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85 


whence she had emerged, and, having placed a chair for her visitor, 
sat down opposite to him. 

She was a stout, elderly woman, whose broad, coarse-featured 
face was redeemed from utter ugliness by its prevailing benevolence 
of expression. She wore a wig of brown hair, which, in color 
and texture, resembled the external fibre of a cocoanut, and over it 
a snow-white muslin cap, with wide floating strings. Her gown 
was of rusty black, and she had huge carpet slippers on her feet. 
She was by birth a Marypool woman, and her father had been 
employed as a compositor in David Hughes’s printing-office during 
the prosperous days of the Phoenix newspaper. She had married 
a Swiss, who had set up a little shop for the sale and repair of 
watches in the English seaport. But soon after their marriage, 
while Eliza Martin was still a very young woman, her husband had 
returned to his native country, where, after his death, she had 
invested her little capital in establishing a boarding-house. 

Madame Martin had passed much more than half her lifetime 
out of England ; and the result of this exile on her speech and 
phraseology was curious. Whether she spoke French or English, 
she retained a strong West -Country accent, oddly interspersed 
with certain foreign inflections. And now and then she would 
translate a French idiom literally into her mother tongue; but al- 
ways in perfect good faith, and with complete unconsciousness 
that she was not talking the English current among the natives of 
Marypool. Like almost every one who had known the Hughes 
family in former times, she retained a great respect and regard 
for them ; and these sentiments had moved her to give young 
Claude Copley the post which he now filled in her house. 

The reader knows already that Claude was discontented with 
his lot in the Pension Monplaisir. But it shortly appeared that 
his employer was almost equally dissatisfied. 

“ I am sure, sir, I wish for your sake that I could say I was con- 
tent of Monsieur Claude. But to say the truth, I am not content 
of him. Far from that !” said Madame Martin, winding up a 
rather long list of Claude’s shortcomings, with a sigh and a shake 
of the head. 

“ I will speak to him seriously, Madame Martin,” said William 
Hughes. “ Perhaps, if he promises to do better in future, you 
may be induced to give him another trial ? Mind,” he added, as 


8G 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


she hesitated to answer, “ I quite acknowledge the justice of all 
you say.” 

“Well, sir, you comprehend that disdainful manners are not 
suitable to the employes in a pension d' etrangers, don’t you ?” 

“ They are highly unsuitable to Claude Copley under any cir- 
cumstances,” answered Hughes, with his dark brows drawn to- 
gether, and a quick sparkle in the eyes beneath them. “ I had 
hoped that Claude understood better what is becoming in a gen- 
tleman.” 

“ Oh, well, sir, I don’t say but what there is provocation some- 
times. As for that — yes ! The boarders give themselves airs. 
But, Lord” (which Madame Martin pronounced “Lard”), “one 
must not take them too serious. If they don’t know how to 
be’ave — well, it is not our affair to teach ’em ! And I let Mon- 
sieur Claude keep apart as much as possible. He has the bureau 
to himself all the morning. And except just being in the way to 
receive people if I am out — which arrives very seldom, I assure 
you ! — or going to the boat or the train to meet an English 
family, he has nothing to do but keep the books and make out 
the bills. And he does not do that regular, Mr. Hughes! He is 
very quick when he likes; and a good accountant and a pretty 
penman. But he is not regular, sir.” 

“ He writes to us that he is not well, Madame Martin,” said 
William, after a short silence. 

Madame Martin’s face instantly softened into an expression of 
maternal compassion. “ Well, indeed, he is not strong, sir,” she 
returned. “ I do feel sometimes a bit anxious about him. But, 
there again, he will not hearken ! He’ll stand about in the garden 
in a thin coat when the dew is falling; and he smokes too much. 
’Tis difficult to make young folks careful, Mr. Hughes. They will 
not hearken !” 

“ I shall get a doctor to look at him,” said William. “ I prom- 
ised my Aunt Judith to obtain a good medical opinion about 
the boy. You remember my Aunt Judith, Madame Martin ?” 

“Remember her? Why, I should think I did, sir! Ah, the 
beautiful person she was ! Such eyes, and such hair ! And does 
she keep her health ? But I have not shown you a room vet. 
You will stay at Monplaisir, Mr. Hughes ? I will make the terms 
as easy as possible, for the sake of old times.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


87 


Bat Hughes told her that he had already engaged a room in a 
farm-house a few miles away, and explained the reason of his be- 
ing in Switzerland at that moment. 

Madame Martin knew the farm-house he mentioned. She 
thought in her heart that it was a sadly poor, rough place for a 
son of Mr. David Hughes to be lodged in. But she refrained 
from saying anything to that effect. She was blunt, and a little 
coarse in the grain ; but her native goodness of heart often sup- 
plied the place of tact. She merely said cheerfully, “ Well, ’tis a 
fine air up there, to be sure. And of course you will be out most 
of the day doing your pictures. But, anyway, you will have some 
breakfast here? ’Twill be an honor for me, and a pleasure, Mr. 
Hughes. And, dear heart alive, you must be famished walking all 
that way, too ! I’ll conduct you to Monsieur Claude’s room — he 
is not there just now ; he has gone to see some ladies off by the 
early train to Genoa — to wash your hands. And then after 
breakfast you can talk with him tranquilly. This way, sir. ’Tis 
rather high up.” 

Madame Martin led the way up-stairs, and left Mr. Hughes in 
his nephew’s room. It was but a garret in the roof, but clean 
and airy. William, as he looked round it, was touched by per- 
ceiving evidences of special trouble having been taken for Claude’s 
comfort. Pretty muslin curtains fluttered at the window ; a row 
of bookshelves had been nailed up against the wall ; and there 
was even the luxury of an easy-chair! This latter was shabby 
and battered, certainly ; but the back and the arms were covered 
with clean white dimity. Altogether, the room was incompara- 
bly pleasanter and more comfortable than the quarters in which 
William was to pass the next few weeks. 

Not that this reflection occurred to William himself. He was 
thinking of the women at home, and hoping that he might be 
able to send such an account of Claude as would reassure Aunt 
Judith about him. And then his thoughts wandered back to the 
days of his boyhood. The sound of honest Eliza Martin’s voice, 
with its broad Marypool accent, had awakened a hundred beloved 
memories — memories of the cricket-field and the schoolroom ; of 
sunny holidays and eager study ; of happy evenings spent in the 
old home ; of his father’s racy talk, little Olive’s gentle affection, 
and Winifred — ! Ah, Winifred had been his idol, his friend, 


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his confidant, his dearest companion. What projects they had 
made, what visions they had seen together, the young, enthusiastic 
brother and sister ! Although Winifred’s name had not passed 
his lips for many a year, her image was not banished from his 
memory ; only it lived and moved there in the pure brightness of 
her early youth. 

He was standing at the window when Madame Martin sum- 
moned him to breakfast; and her voice recalled him, not from 
the woods and hills of the Canton de Vaud, but from scenes lit 
by the sunshine of a vanished past. 

Something of its melancholy radiance seemed still to linger in 
his face as he entered the long dining-room. But the prosaic side 
of life was apt to assert itself obtrusively at Monplaisir ; and the 
aspect of that room and of its inmates was certainly not calculated 
to foster poetic sentiment ! 

The whole scene was one which may be found repeated, with 
slight and unimportant variations, in a hundred Continental board- 
ing-houses. A long, narrow table ran down the whole length of 
the room. It was covered by a coarse, and not spotlessly clean 
cloth, and beside every plate lay a napkin encircled with a bone 
ring bearing a number. Dotted down the table at irregular inter- 
vals sat groups of persons breakfasting together, while here and 
there was a single figure, separated from the others by two or 
three vacant chairs. At a round table, in one corner, sat a Rus- 
sian family-party with nurses and children. There was a faint, 
permanent smell of dinner in the room, and the only purely deco- 
rative objects to be seen in it were two pink China vases full of 
faded artificial flowers, which, for the present, stood on a sideboard, 
but would by and by grace the dinner-table. 

As William Hughes walked to his place at the lower end of the 
long table, where his coffee was already set forth, he was the ob- 
ject of unconcealed scrutiny. Nearly every one present examined 
him with that air of resentful mistrust with which our fallen nat- 
ure not uncommonly receives a new-comer, especially in those 
places where the new-comer’s right to enter is absolutely equal 
to that of the persons who have entered before him ! But Mr. 
Hughes bad one qualification which mitigated the severity of the 
glances bestowed on him — he was a man. The appearance of an 
adult male human being, however usual a phenomenon through- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


89 


out the world in general, was rare in the Pension Monplaisir. 
William was, in fact, the only representative of his sex in the eat- 
ing-room at that moment. Nevertheless, he took his seat, and 
ate his breakfast with a sufficiently unembarrassed demeanor. 

Presently Madame Martin bustled into the room, with a shuf- 
fling sound of her broad feet in their carpet slippers on the wooden 
floor. She sat down beside Mr. Hughes, and whispered to him 
that “Monsieur” Claude would be back in a few minutes, and 
that she would then show Mr. Hughes into the bureau, where the 
uncle and nephew could talk undisturbed. 

“ But do not derange yourself, sir,” said the good woman, 
heartily. “ Finish your breakfast at leisure. There is no hurry !” 
Then she added, in his ear, “ There’ll be a deal of curiosity about 
you, Mr. Hughes ; and I shall be cross-questioned the moment 
your back is turned. You see how Mrs. Armour is staring at 
you ?” — indicating, by a stealthy movement of her thumb, a lady 
seated at the head of the table. 

Hughes glanced discreetly in that direction, and saw a woman 
of about thirty-five years old, with a worn face, pale-blue eyes, 
and a great deal of tousled-looking light hair, attired in a style 
of shabby smartness. 

“ She and Monsieur Claude are great friends,” proceeded Ma- 
dame Martin. “ She’s a very proud lady, sir — an officer’s widow 
— and considers herself quite the first in the Pension.” 

“ But how does it come to pass,” asked Hughes, raising his 
eyebrows gravely, but with an impressible sense of something 
comic expressed in the lines of his mouth, “ that a lady of such 
exalted station should make friends with my nephew ?” 

“ Ah well, you see, sir, of course, Mr. Claude being also rather 
high in his manners, and coming of such a good family and all, 
the two are what you may call birds of a feather. Besides, Mrs. 
Armour likes a good deal of attention, and we haven’t hardly any 
gentlemen here,” added Madame Martin, half shrewdly, half sim- 
ply. “ The only thing is,” she went on, after a moment’s hesi- 
tation, “that it does arouse a feeling of jealousy among the other 
boarders when they see Monsieur Claude so extra civil to Mrs. Ar- 
mour, while he be’aves to them quite de haul en has ! That is but 
natural, sir; for when you pay the same as others, you do not like 
to be treated inferior. But there, there ; don’t vex yourself, Mr. 


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Hughes. You’ll give Monsieur Claude some good advice, and he 
will hearken to you more than he does to me, that’s sure. Lord, 
I don’t want to be hard on him ! He is but young. And the 
sight of you has brought back old times, so that I feel as if I 
couldn’t bear to say a crooked word to any one belonging to Mr. 
David Hughes — the dear gentleman !” 


* 


CHAPTER XII. 

The irritation which William Hughes had felt on hearing Ma- 
dame Martin’s account of his nephew was suddenly mitigated by 
the first sight of the young man. Claude was not like his mother’s 
family. There was some resemblance to the Hugheses in his thick 
black eyebrows and handsome dark eyes, but the weak mouth and 
retreating chin belonged to a totally different type from theirs. 
He was of slender build and rather tall stature. But he was now 
more than slender — almost emaciated ; there was an expression 
of weariness in the bright eyes, which looked disproportionately 
large in the thin, pale face, and his sloping shoulders were round- 
ed like those of an elderly man. 

William reproached himself with having been too hard and 
incredulous. The boy was evidently much out of health. But 
Claude unexpectedly declared himself to be much better than 
when he had written to Aunt Judith. In fact, he eagerly de- 
clared that he was almost well. A doctor? No ; he did not wish 
to see a doctor. He did not need one. As to Madame Martin’s 
complaints, Uncle William must remember that she was a very 
vt^gar, ignorant woman, and did not at all understand how to 
draw the line between the duties of a secretary and those of a 
servant. Besides, she had a chronic habit of grumbling ; every 
one in the Pension knew that. Kind-hearted and well-meanino- ? 
Well, perhaps — oh yes! No doubt she was well-meaning. Only 
one must not take to heart every word which came out of her 
mouth. However, Claude was very willing to try and meet her 
requirements, even though they should be a little unreasonable. 
He did not wish to give up his situation at present — at all events, 


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91 


not unless something better turned up. With regard to Mrs. Ar- 
mour — Uncle William had no idea what a wretched, spiteful, petty- 
minded crew they had in the boarding-house now. Civil? Cer- 
tainly, he was perfectly civil ! But it was impossible to satisfy 
them by mere civility and politeness, and he presumed it was not 
reckoned part of his duty to profess familiar affection for them all. 

When Claude had written to his Aunt Judith so lamentable an 
account of his state of health he had certainly intended to achieve 
his recall to London. He lacked stamina, both of mind and body, 
and shrank from any effort which was displeasing to him. He 
had met with unexpected mortifications in the position of clerk 
and secretary in the Pension Monplaisir, and he could not bear 
the yoke of a disagreeable duty. That other people bore such a 
yoke was nothing to him. Other people might be more thick- 
skinned, and very likely were ! 

Then by degrees he began to attribute a great part of the dis- 
gust and weariness which oppressed him to the climate of Vevey. 
And this suggestion he instinctively welcomed as affording a chance 
of escape. His selfishness was not of that robust kind which is 
content with the attainment of its own desires at any cost. Claude 
liked to make a good figure, and to be credited with the most rea- 
sonable motives for getting his own way. 

But between the pathetic appeal which had brought tears into 
Aunt Judith’s eyes, and the October day on which William ap- 
peared at the boarding-house, several weeks had elapsed, and had 
brought a change which greatly reconciled Claude to remaining 
where he was. 

The change was due to the arrival of Mrs. Armour. Mrs. Ar- 
mour had “taken up” Mr. Copley. In other words, she had 
made common cause with him against the other boarders, with 
whom she was not popular, and gave them to understand that she 
and Mr. Copley belonged to a superior order of gentility to theirs; 
that Mr. Copley, like herself, came of a “ good family and that 
his being obliged, by pecuniary misfortunes, to act as secretary in 
the Pension Monplaisir by no means affected his claim to the 
distinction of Mrs. Armour’s notice and friendship. Mrs. Armour 
had, in fact, strong personal motives for objecting to purse-pride 
in all its manifestations. 

In a word, she flattered and cajoled young Copley, with no 


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deeper or more sinister object than to gratify a very pitiful ambi- 
tion and indulge a taste for flirtation which long habit had turned 
into a craving as imperious as that of a confirmed dram-drinker. 

It did not take William long to discover the real state of the 
case during his conversation with his nephew. He knew the 
young fellow to be vain and unstable, and to have, moreover, that 
ready susceptibility to unworthy influences which is often com- 
bined in a weak character with hard inaccessibility to reason and 
justice. It was, perhaps, the inflexible rectitude of William 
Hughes’s mind which sundered the uncle and nephew more than 
anything else. Claude was conscious that behind the tender mer- 
cy of his uncle’s deeds there lay a keen and unflinching insight 
into the faults and weaknesses which he forgave as he hoped to 
be forgiven. Now Claude, although he wished to be indulged, 
had no taste for being forgiven. 

He had begun by standing somewhat defiantly on the defen- 
sive. He expected a sharp lecture. But the deep fountains of 
compassion in William’s nature overflowed when he saw the pale 
young face and fragile figure. The few words of reproof and ad- 
vice which he uttered were tenderly chosen and gently said. On 
one point only he was inflexibly firm — he must see a doctor. 

When that had been fully settled William said “ Good-by,” 
and prepared to betake himself to the point of view he had se- 
lected for his first sketch. Madame Martin, who had been lying 
in wait for him, hurried out of her little room, and begged him 
to wait and rest awhile longer, instead of tramping all that way 
along the dusky road. “ The sun will not wait for me,” answered 
William, with a smile. “ If I do not make haste I shall lose the 
light I want. But, before I go, I must tell you that Claude has 
promised me to do his best to please you in future ; and that he 
has no wish to leave your house. For my own part, and in my 
Aunt Judith’s name, too, I must thank you very heartily for your 
goodness to the boy. Have patience with him yet awhile longer, 
and I hope you will find things go much better. It is a great 
comfort to us to know that Claude is under the eye of an old 
friend like yourself.” Then he heartily wrung the good wom- 
an’s hand, and went away. 

The verdict of the physician whom Claude consulted the next 
day was by no means unfavorable to the young man’s remaining 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


93 


in Vevey — at all events for the present. There was not much 
amiss. He must be careful not to catch cold, and to avoid ex- 
posing himself to the evening dews, and so forth. There was, 
perhaps, some hereditary delicacy of constitution, but no cause 
for immediate alarm. William was not altogether reassured by 
these indistinct generalities. But to Claude they sufficed. lie 
had — half-unconsciously perhaps — influenced the doctor’s view of 
his case by many suppressions of the truth. He felt quite strong ; 
he had no cough now, scarcely any cough, at least. The lassi- 
tude and pains in the limbs which he had complained of to Aunt 
Judith had quite disappeared. He was in high spirits as he and 
his uncle left the doctor’s house together. He was to have his 
own way, and to escape reproaches. There was only one little 
bitter drop in the whole affair, the position he was compelled to 
accept towards Madame Martin. She had consented to overlook 
his shortcomings and to give him another trial. That was hu- 
miliating. However, Madame Martin, although she spoke bluntly 
enough to him in private, was too thoroughly good-natured to 
snub him publicly. And as Claude had prudence enough to be- 
have in a more conciliatory manner towards those boarders whom 
he had previously offended, all went on smoothly enough during 
the next few weeks at the Pension Monplaisir. 

There was a great deal of disappointment among Madame Mar- 
tin’s inmates when it was found that Mr. Hughes did not intend 
to take up his abode there. 

Madame Martin was subjected to a searching cross-examination 
about the “ short, dark gentleman ” who had suddenly appeared at 
the breakfast-table and had then been seen no more. She had 
boldly declared him to be one of the most celebrated landscape- 
painters in England. Even in these days of cheap newspapers, 
steam communication, and electric telegraphs, “ celebrity ” is still a 
relative term of more or less limited significance. And none of 
the boarders at Monplaisir ventured to contradict the assertion of 
poor William Hughes’s celebrity, lest by ignoring him they should 
argue themselves unknown. 

Miss Jenks, indeed, who was on some points courageous even 
to rashness, pronounced with some heat that Mr. Hughes couldn't 
be as celebrated as Landseer; but Mrs. Ford pointed out that 
Landseer was dead, and that, moreover, he had only painted 


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dogs and horses ; and Miss Jenks, not being able at the moment 
to think of any English landscape-painter of eminence, was re- 
duced to temporary silence on that score. 

Miss Jenks was a tall, middle-aged woman, with a freckled skin, 
good, rough-hewn features, and a powerful, bony frame. She 
was extremely poor — so poor that it was a subject of wonder in 
the Pension how she had found the means of travelling from 
Northampton, where her friends lived, to Switzerland. But she 
was an intrepid borrower. It had once been said of her by a shy 
clergyman whom she had persecuted to the verge of desperation, 
that in demanding the assistance of her fellow -creatures Miss 
Jenks knew neither fear nor shame. And — possibly from her 
ignorance of those depressing qualities — she exhibited on all occa- 
sions a brassy cheerfulness which affected nervous persons like the 
sound of a gong. 

“ Oh, Mr. Hughes has a great renommee among the first artists, 
I assure you,” said Madame Martin, as she was shuffling out of 
the room in her big slippers. “ Only last season the Grand Duke 
Casimir bought one of his tableaux.” 

This was a concrete fact which made a considerable impression. 

“ Well, now, I’m glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Ford. Mrs. Ford 
was a good-natured old woman, in the main, although she had 
her antipathies — as every one who saw her in company with Mrs. 
Armour must perceive. “ I’m glad to hear it,” she repeated, in a 
still more cordial tone, “ for I thought Mr. Hughes looked rather 
shabby, and as if he’d seen trouble.” 

“ He looked to me like a foreigner, with those dark eyes and 
that complexion. Quite Spanish !” exclaimed Miss Jenks. 

“ That is his Keltic blood,” said Mrs. Armour, dropping her 
remark into the midst of the conversation with an air of indolent 
superiority. 

Every one present turned round and looked at her. 

“ What blood is it ?” asked Mrs. Ford, simply. 

“Keltic. He comes of an ancient Welsh family.” 

“ Oh ! That's what you call Keltic, is it ? The word used to 
be spelt with a C in my time !” 

Mrs. Armour shrugged her shoulders in disdainful silence. 

“ Oh, but they do say ‘ Kelt ’ now, Mrs. Ford. I saw the word 
in a newspaper only the other day, speaking about the Highland- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


95 


ers. It comes from ‘kilt,’ very likely,” said Miss Jcnks, with 
more valor than discretion. She was quite ready to plunge into 
an argument on etymology ; as she would have been to discuss 
conic sections or the latest discoveries in Egyptology, if she had 
ever happened to see those topics mentioned in a newspaper. 

But the general curiosity about Mr. Hughes was impatient of 
any excursions from the matter in hand, and Mrs. Armour was 
closely questioned as to how she knew anything of Mr. Hughes’s 
lineage. Had she been acquainted with him before? When it 
appeared that all she knew of Mr. Hughes was derived from young 
Copley, and that Mr. Hughes was young Copley’s uncle, public 
opinion was somewhat divided. The two Miss Curdans made 
cutting remarks in an audible tone to each other. 

“ Oh, I see !” said Miss Curdan. “ Since the gentleman is re- 
lated to Mr. Copley, of course, he must be something very supe- 
* 

rxor. 

“Yes; that accounts for the ‘Welsh blood.’ I didn’t under- 
stand at first,” replied Miss Susan. “It is very convenient to 
belong to an ancient Welsh family. It can’t be inquired into.” 

These sneers were, in truth, aimed at Mrs. Armour rather than 
at Mr. Hughes. But sneers, like arrows, often hit wide of the 
mark. 

Mrs. Ford took a different view. “ A relation of that young 
jackanapes, is he ? 11 said she. “ What a pity the young man does 
not try to copy his uncle’s manners ! He bowed in the politest 
way to everybody all round when he left the breakfast-table.” 

“ Yes,” said Miss Jenks. “ I noticed his bow — quite Frenchy, 
wasn’t it? I consider there’s a deal of the foreigner about Mr. 
Hughes. I said so from the first.” 

Miss Jenks’s experience of foreign manners had been limited to 
her journey, the preceding week, from Calais to Geneva and from 
Geneva to Vevey. But she made bold and rapid inductions, in- 
ferring the general from the particular — and very often from one 
particular. 

On the whole, the feeling of the society at Monplaisir was in- 
clined to be favorable towards Mr. Hughes personally. And 
when, on Madame Martin’s pressing invitation, he spent an even- 
ing at the Pension, he at once established himself as a popular 
favorite. 


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He talked French with the Russian lady (who only knew four 
languages, of which English did not happen to be one) ; he sang 
Italian popular melodies in a soft baritone voice ; he improvised 
an accompaniment on his guitar to a ballad sung by Miss Susan 
Curdan ; he handed round teacups and cakes with a gallantry 
which confirmed Miss Jenks in her opinion that his manners were 
Frenchy ; he chatted a little, and listened a great deal ; and, above 
all, he did not single out Mrs. Armour for particular attention, 
nor show any desire to engross that lady's conversation. Even 
Claude, who was invited to join the party (and whom the severest 
of his female critics admitted to look “ very interesting ” and “ quite 
the gentleman ” in his evening dress), behaved with unusual po- 
liteness to every one — an improvement rightly attributed to his 
uncle’s presence and influence. 

As soon as Mr. Hughes had gone away, Mrs. Armour also with- 
drew, and then the other ladies became enthusiastic in the paint- 
er’s praises. 

“ Such an accomplished musician !” said Miss Susan Curdan. 
“ How well he accompanied me !” 

“ And what unaffected manners ! Very different from the 
stuck-up pretensions of some people !” exclaimed the elder sister. 

Mrs. Ford pointed out that even the young jackanapes had be- 
haved quite nicely to-night ; and she added that, after all, he was 
young, and allowance ought to be made for a lad of that age 
when a woman old enough to be his mother made a fool of 
him. 

Miss Jenks’s meditations about Mr. Hughes were of a more 
serious and far-reaching kind. 

Miss Jenks was not used to be treated with much gentleness or 
consideration. Her demeanor did not invite such treatment. She 
impressed all beholders with the conviction that she was not only 
able to take care of herself, but determined to do so. No female 
fellow-traveller had ever offered Miss Jenks a smelling-bottle. No 
policeman had ever volun 'ered to pilot Miss Jenks over a London 
crossing. The society in which she had lived did not include any 
men who habitually treated all women with delicate deference ; 
and Mr. Hughes’s behavior to herself had impressed her pro- 
foundly. Imagine a dragoon in an enemy’s country, who has 
been procuring his daily bread by active and ruthless “requisi- 


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97 


tions,” and to whom suddenly a native advances smiling, and offer- 
ing fat poultry ! What could be Mr. Hughes’s motive ? 

There was something almost pathetic in Miss Jenks’s astonish- 
ment at finding herself the object of considerate courtesy. But 
she was not of a soft or weakly grateful nature. With her usual 
practical energy she determined to take advantage of so unex- 
pected a phenomenon. Mr. Hughes was a very agreeable person. 
He was said to be a painter of distinction. He must, at any rate, 
be earning a respectable living. He was evidently extremely ami- 
able — a quality which Miss Jenks confused with feebleness of 
character. And it was clear, from his behavior, that he had taken 
an extraordinary liking to her. 

Miss Jenks sat up in her own little room on the third floor for 
a long time that night, thinking over the occurrences of the even- 
ing. She did not light her candle, from motives of economy. But 
there was a bright moon ; and, besides, one can think in the dark. 
Before she went to bed, Miss Jenks had taken a great resolution. 
She had made up her mind to marry Mr. Hughes. 

Meanwhile, under the wooden veranda at the back of the house, 
Mrs. Armour was pacing up and down with Claude Copley. The 
autumn night, though clear, was chilly, and Claude, in his even- 
ing suit, shivered and coughed now and then. Mrs. Armour was 
wrapped in a warm shawl, and did not feel cold. She was talking 
about herself. Her favorite topic, usually, was her life in India 
with Captain Armour. But to-night her reminiscences went fur- 
ther back. 

“Oh, my family were hand-in-glove with the first artists in 
London,” she was saying. “ Although we lived chiefly in fashion- 
able society, yet papa’s table was always open to first-rate artists. 
He had such liberal views about all that !” 

Claude answered, vaguely, that he was quite sure of it. 

“ I was so much the youngest, you know. And, indeed, I had 
only been out one season when poor papa died. But celebrated 
people of all sorts were only too delighted to come to our house. 
Do you know, I think you ought to mention that to your uncle. 
He very likely supposes me to belong to the same class as these 
dreadful old women in the Pension here !” 

“ He can scarcely look at you and suppose that !” said Claude. 

Well, upon my word, I don’t know! He did not appear to 

7 


98 


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distinguish me from them in any way. At any rate, Mr. Hughes 
would be interested to hear about papa. He may have met him. 
I should say he certainly must have heard of him. There was no 
house in London better known in the best artistic circles than 
Dr. Kirby’s. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ Now, Miss Copley, if I have any musical gift at all, it is for 
dramatic singing,” said Lady Lambton. 

Barbara bowed her head. 

“ I mean,” continued Lady Lambton, “ singing full of dramatic 
expression. The words produce so much greater an effect when 
uttered to music than if they were simply spoken. Singing of 
that sort is appreciated even by persons who have not what is 
generally meant by an ear for music. Do you understand?” 

“ Yes; I think so,” answered Barbara. 

Lady Lambton had kept her word, and had engaged Miss Cop- 
ley, at a modest remuneration, to come to her house twice a week 
and accompany her songs. This was the first day of the engage- 
ment, and Barbara was already seated at the pianoforte, waiting 
for her ladyship to select a song. 

There was a pile of loose music lying on a canterbury near the 
instrument, and Amy was turning it over, and taking up first one 
piece and then another, irresolutely. At length she looked round 
at the gentle, serious face beside her, and said, 

“ I wish you could suggest something that would suit me, 
Miss Copley.” 

“ I think, perhaps,” said Barbara, after a moment’s hesitation, 
“ that if you would sing me something, I might be able to recom- 
mend a song. You see I do not even know what is the register 
of your voice.” 

“ The register ?” 

“ I mean its compass. Is it a contralto voice ? a soprano ?” 

“ Oh, my voice has a very extensive compass. Let me see ! 
It is really so long since I sang ; and I have so unfortunately sen- 
sitive an ear that if I make the very slightest mistake it drives 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


99 


me mad ! However, let me see ! Oh, here is a little thins: I used 

o 

to sing !” And Lady Lambton, who had been tossing the music 
about in a hasty, important manner, pulled out Schubert’s 
“ Adieu,” and set it on the desk. 

When Barbara began to play the symphony, the sound of the 
first chords almost made her start. The piano was sadly in need 
of tuning ; and she nervously expected to hear Lady Lambton 
utter a cry of dismay and close the instrument. But her lady- 
ship must have possessed more self-control than she gave herself 
credit for ; since, far from evincing acute distress, she did not 
even appear to notice that there was anything amiss. The choice 
of the song was unfortunate. Its delicate pathos did not suit 
Amy Lambton in any respect. Her voice was hard — even harsh 
— in the upper notes, aud she mispronounced the French 
words. 

When she had finished there w T as a short silence, and then she 
said, peevishly, 

“The ‘Adieu’ was never a favorite song of mine. It doesn’t 
interest me. It is so dreadfully monotonous. You don’t say 
anything, Miss Copley ?” 

“ I — I think the song is rather too low for your voice. And, 
besides, the piano ought to be — I suppose you mean to have 
it tuned, Lady Lambton ?” 

“ Tuned ! Why, it is only — Let me see ! How long is it 
since the man was here ? It cannot be many weeks. Well ; now 
that you have heard my voice, Miss Copley, perhaps you will 
suggest something that will suit me ? I expected you to be able 
to do that when I engaged you.” 

Barbara considered silently for a minute. Then she asked if 
Lady Lambton sang Italian. 

“ Oh yes 1” answered Amy, confidently. “ I don’t speak it. 
Nobody does talk Italian. But the pronunciation is so easy ! 
Do you know Italian, Miss Copley ?” 

“ Yes; a little. I learned it chiefly from my uncle, who once 
lived in Rome, and has a peculiar gift for languages.” 

“ Oh, I see ! Yes, it is quite a gift. I had it from a child, 
but my terrible sensitiveness has stood in my way. Some people 
can talk on stolidly, not caring what blunders they make ; but 
nothing short of perfection satisfies me, Well, then, you would 


100 


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be able to help me, perhaps, if I were doubtful about the pro- 
nunciation of a word ? Oh, it might happen, you know !” 

“ I would do my best,” said Barbara. 

“ Really, I think that is not at all a bad idea of yours about 
the Italian songs. The Italian school of music is so intensely 
dramatic — quite my style. The next time you come I wish you 
would bring me one or two pieces to look at. Will you ? And 
now, suppose for a change, you sing me something ! Here is 
‘ The Erl King.’ That is a very fine thing. Just run through 
it.” 

In vain Barbara protested that she had but the tiniest thread 
of a voice, and was quite unable to do justice to ‘The Erl King.’ 
Lady Lambton insisted. 

“ Never mind your want of voice, Miss Copley,” she said. “ We 
can’t all have voices. Very often, do you know, in listening to 
other people an idea comes to me which I might never get if I 
were singing myself. Their very defects are a revelation as to 
how the thing ought to be done. Not that that applies to you, 
Miss Copley. I am sure you will get through it very nicely in- 
deed. Sing it in English, please.” 

Barbara complied, and Amy listened with close attention. When 
the song was over she clapped her hands together, and cried, 

“ Very well ! Very well, indeed ! You have but a small voice, 
it is true,” she added, smiling ; “ and, of course, ‘ The Erl King’ 
requires a good deal of power and energy to give it its full effect. 
But still — You played that accompaniment so capitally that I 
must ask you to play it again. You have quite put me in the 
vein — that’s my artistic nature ! and I feel that I must sing the 
song myself.” 

So “The Erl King” was repeated; and this time no one could 
complain of want of force and energy. But, in spite of some 
exaggeration, the song was not badly sung; and, after announcing 
in a sepulchral tone that “ In his arms the fair child — was dead,” 
Lady Lambton turned round with a triumphant smile, and said, 

“ There ! That’s better than the whining ‘Adieu,’ isn’t it?” 

“ Much better,” assented Barbara, simply. “ I am quite — ” 

“ Quite surprised, you mean ? Oh, don’t hesitate to say so. 
You will find out by and by, when you know me better, that in 
all things artistic I am a creature of impulses. If a subject takes 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


101 


hold of my imagination, I can do anything ! But without that 
spark of enthusiasm I am powerless.” 

When the hour came to an end, Lady Lambton was still in 
high good humor. 

“ I knew we should suit each other, Miss Copley,” she said. 
“ These lessons — I mean these little practisings together — will 
quite inspire me. I shall take up my music again con amove. 
You see sympathy is necessary to me — not praise ; I could not 
bear you to flatter me ; but I do need sympathy. You will come 
next Wednesday without fail ?” 

Amy Lambton was convinced that she had made a delightful 
impression on Miss Copley. The poor thing did not often enjoy 
so interesting an experience in the course of her daily drudgery ; 
and would doubtless take home a rose-colored account of the 
pleasant hour she had spent, and the charming kindness with 
which she had been treated. Amy felt a glow of self-approval 
when she remembered her own unaffected affability. But per- 
haps there is no form of social benevolence which produces a 
scantier return of gratitude than affability. 

Barbara, as she sat in the omnibus which carried her home- 
ward, was, in fact, thinking solely of her Uncle William’s last 
letter from Vevey — of his account of Claude’s improved health, 
and of that good creature, Madame Martin, who had been so kind 
to her brother. The letter also contained a description of the 
evening which William had spent at the Pension. A smile broke 
over Barbara’s face as she thought of it. She knew her uncle 
so well, and so thoroughly relished the quiet humor with which 
he narrated the sayings and doings of the company at Monplaisir. 
But this part of the letter Barbara had kept to herself, for Aunt 
Judith was not always discreet, and her sense of humor was rudi- 
mentary. Just as certain persons are color-blind, others are fun- 
blind. And both deficiencies may remain undetected throughout 
a long life, since the deficient ones are able to laugh, and to say 
that the sky is blue, as well as their neighbors. 

It was dusk when Barbara reached home. Ruddy firelight shone 
from the window of the front parlor, and sent a warm glow, broken 
bj' flickering shadows, over the dingy whitewash of its ceiling. 

“ There’s been a gentleman to see mistress, Miss Barbara,” 
whispered Larcher, when she opened the street door. 


102 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ Has there ? Was it Mr. Hill ?” naming the father of one of 
Miss Hughes’s little scholars. 

“ I said ‘ a gentleman,’ Miss Barbara,” returned Larcher. “ Mr. 
Hill is a respectable man, in his way, though his weights and 
scales ain’t to be followed blindfold ; but he is — well, I should 
describe him as a party, or a person, myself.” 

Barbara laughed, but the next moment she said, anxiously, 
“I hope there has been nothing to vex Aunt Judith.” 

Barbara’s experience, acting on Barbara’s temperament, had led 
her to fear the unknown and unexpected. 

“ Law bless you, no, Miss Barbara ! Mistress is as pleased as 
anything. The gentleman hasn’t been gone five minutes, and 
mistress had just rung her bell, and had me up to talk to me 
about him. But now she can talk to you, which, of course, is 
far better. Not that I ever repeat again to common persons what 
is said to me in this family. As I used to tell that there poor 
creature Briggs — ‘ Briggs,’ I said, ‘there’s subjects you can’t 
understand, never having lived with gentlefolks. And when a 
person gets talking about what they don’t understand, they cause 
nothing but muddle to themselves and others.’ But,” she added, 
with her apologetic smile and droop of the head, “ he was a well- 
meaning creature, poor man ! And he didn’t live but two years 
and three weeks from the day we was married.” 

As soon as Miss Hughes heard the parlor door open, she turned 
round eagerly to welcome her grandniece. 

“ Dear me, I am sorry you did not arrive a little earlier, Bar- 
bara !” she exclaimed. “ However, he will come again. I gave 
him permission to call. I am very well pleased with him — very 
well pleased indeed.” 

“ Pleased with whom, Aunt Judith?” 

“ Why, with Augusta’s son l He apologized for calling without 
a formal introduction ; but I said to him, ‘Yon could not have 
better credentials than your mother’s name. Circumstances di- 
vided our families many years ago ; but I have always retained a 
kindly remembrance of Augusta Maddison, so far as she person- 
ally was concerned.” 

“Oh, Mr. Hofmann has been here?” said Barbara. She pri- 
vately thought that her aunt’s tone of mingled dignity and con- 
descension must have surprised Mr. Hofmann ; and that he had 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


103 


expected a different kind of reception from his mother’s mes- 
sage. 

But Aunt Judith had clearly no idea of that sort in her head. 
She recounted the interview with perfect complacency. It was 
plain, she said, that the young man was in ignorance as to the 
events of the past ; and that was all the better. Arthur Maddison, 
it appeared, was still living, and still unmarried. His nephew de- 
scribed him as a hypochondriacal invalid. Ah ! No doubt he 
had not been able to forget Olive, after all ; and no doubt he bit- 
terly regretted his desertion of her, now that it was too late. Well, 
that was some comfort! 

Barbara listened rather absently. “ It was very kind of him to 
come,” she said, when the worn, flute-like tones of the old lady’s 
voice ceased for a moment. 

“ Kind ! That is scarcely the right word, Barbara. It was 
polite and proper behavior ; in fact, it was his duty. His mother 
had intrusted to him a message of remembrance for me. Poor 
Augusta ! It is clear that she would be glad to make up old 
quarrels ; and if she were in London I should certainly not refuse 
to receive her. I am only sorry your Uncle William was not here. 
I am sure William would have been pleased to make his acquaint- 
ance. However, it is only deferred.” 

“ Oh, I don’t suppose that Mr. Hofmann is likely to come here 
again. Why should he ?” said Barbara, incautiously. 

“Why should he? Upon my word, Barbara — !” 

“ I mean — because — since he has delivered his message, you 
know — ” 

“ If he were Augusta’s servant, that would be a sufficient reason 
for his not coming again, certainly. But, being her son, he will 
naturally avail himself of my permission to call.” 

“ Oh ! Yes.” 

“ He is extremely interested in your uncle’s work. He spoke 
quite enthusiastically of one of William’s landscapes which he saw 
the other day by chance.” 

“Did he?” 

“ And he told me how much you are liked and admired by his rel- 
atives, the Ketterings. I am glad to know that they appreciate you.” 

“ Dear Aunt Judith, I have always told you how kind the whole 
family have been to me.” 


104 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“‘Kind’ again! People are ‘kind,’ according to you, if they 
behave with common decency !” exclaimed Aunt Judith, pettishly. 

But her face cleared again in a moment. Young Hofmann’s 
visit had highly gratified her ; and presently her thoughts, start- 
ing from the subject of the Maddisons, and wandering backward, 
busied themselves with still earlier reminiscences of her youth and 
of old times in Marypool. 

Barbara, enjoying her one idle hour of the day — the hour be- 
fore tea-time — sat with her hands loosely clasped on her lap and 
listened to her aunt’s often-told stories of the past. The firelight 
glowed and flickered, and the girl’s thoughts seemed to flicker 
with it dreamily. The old stories about all those dead-and-gone 
people sounded in her ears like the chime of distant bells — full of 
melancholy, and yet with an indescribable sweetness. 

Barbara, too, young as she was, had her own cherished memories. 

She was thinking of a holiday she had passed in Kent two years 
ago. Holidays of any sort were rare with her ; and a holiday in 
the country was most rare and precious. Her uncle was painting 
a subject which had attracted him near a remote Kentish village, 
and had found such cheap and pleasant quarters in a farm-house 
hard by that he had sent for Barbara to stay there with him while 
he was working at his picture. She had been looking pale and 
fagged, and a few weeks of rest and fresh air would restore her. 
Claude, who was then at home, stayed in town to take care of 
Aunt Judith. 

Ah, what happy weeks those were for Barbara ! The country 
was beautiful ; the summer skies were sunny ; her uncle was in- 
terested in his work ; and, moreover, it could not be denied that 
the presence of Mr. Gilbert Hazel added to the pleasure of their 
stay at Thornfield. He had been lodging there for several weeks 
when they arrived at the farm-house, and William Hughes and lie 
took a liking to each other at first sight. 

Mr. Hazel was a soldier, on sick leave from India. He had 
been very near dying of fever ; but the sea voyage had done much 
for him, and his cure had been completed by the pure, bracing air 
of Thornfield Common. He was almost alone in the world. His 
few distant kinsfolk lived in the heart of a manufacturing district. 
Thornfield Farm suited his means as well as his health (for Gil- 
bert Hazel made no secret of his poverty), and he had spent near- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


105 


ly the whole of his leave of absence in that peaceful, secluded 
place, with a few books and his fishing-rod for his sole company. 

All these details came out quite naturally while he and William 
Hughes were smoking an evening pipe together in the farm-house 
kitchen, or during the long days while the painter was working in 
the open air. The spot which Hughes had selected for his land- 
scape chanced to be the most favorable point for fishing in the 
stream, on whose banks Mr. Hazel spent many hours with his rod 
and line. It clearly must have been the most favorable point, 
since Mr. Hazel seldom moved far from it. And Barbara would 
carry out her work or her sewing, and sit near her uncle, or wan- 
der a little way over the picturesque common or along the course 
of the stream, but never out of sight. And so the summer days 
passed serenely, and the precious holiday came to an end. 

But the recollection of it remained with Barbara as a treasured 
possession. She did not often speak of it to Aunt Judith, be- 
cause Aunt Judith had taken an odd, jealous prejudice against 
Gilbert Hazel, whom she had never seen ; and how could she talk 
about the holiday at Thornfield without mentioning Mr. Hazel ? 
Neither did Barbara ever originate the subject with her Uncle 
William, who had conceived a strong regard for Hazel ; but she 
listened with a glow of sympathy when her uncle spoke of him. 

“ Hazel,” said William once to Aunt Judith, “ has some charac- 
teristics which especially delight me. He has considerable pride 
and tenacity, but they are of a very unusual kind. There is a 
strong spice of romance in him, and no amount of ‘chaff’ could 
make him ashamed of it. That pretence of indifference which 
young fellows weakly imitate from one another, and imagine they 
are seeming strong — that cheap assumption of superiority to the 
finer emotions of humanity (as if insensibility implied superiority ! 
Why, which of us can hope to rival the jelly-fish?) — has not in- 
fected him. Many of us outgrow it; but Hazel never took it — 
just as some constitutions are impervious to measles.” 

Whereupon Aunt Judith remarked sharply, “ I don’t admire 
sentimentality in a man. A man ought to be practical.” 

There is nothing so efficacious for closing the mouth of reason- 
able persons as a touch of unreason. A logical mind perceives at 
once that there is no hope of two parallel lines ever meeting. But 
Aunt Judith’s mind was not of that cast. And she would pursue 


106 


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her argument alongside of her interlocutor’s argument (with which 
it had nothing whatever to do), in the confident expectation of 
their by and by converging, when her opponent must either get 
out of the way or be run over. 

So Barbara sat silent in the firelight, and said nothing of what 
was in her heart as she thought of Thornfield and of an inter- 
view between Gilbert Hazel and her uncle, about which the latter 
had told her something, but which shall presently be narrated 
more fully to the reader. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

It came to pass in this way : On the evening before Hazel’s de- 
parture from Thornfield (which was to precede that of William 
Hughes and his niece by a few days) he was alone with the painter 
in the old-fashioned kitchen. The rest of the household had gone 
to bed, and the house was very quiet. The two men had been 
smoking silently for some minutes, when Hazel said suddenly, “ I 
should like to tell you something about myself, if you don’t mind 
listening. It isn’t a long yarn ; and, indeed, I have little more of 
a story to tell than the needy knife-grinder himself.” 

Hughes looked up with a serious, attentive face, and nodded. 

There ensued so long a pause that it seemed as though Gilbert 
Hazel had forgotten his purpose or changed his mind. But 
presently he went on : “ Well, it can be said in a few words. My 
poor dad, who knew no more of business than the man in the 
moon — he had a good property in Buckinghamshire, and held a 
family living there — was ruined by a mining speculation. When 
the crash came, I had been engaged nearly a year to a girl whom 
I had known all my life. It had, in fact, been a boy and girl 
courtship. She was the only child of a man of very good means 
in our neighborhood. Her people thought we were too young to 
marry at once — anyway, they thought she was. And then when 
my regiment was ordered to India, they wouldn’t hear of her go- 
ing out there. However, if after a year or two we were still in 
the same mind, they would not oppose our marriage, provided I 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


107 


could get sent home or would leave the army. Well, as soon as 
I knew how things were, and that I had literally nothing in the 
world but my pay, and the interest of a thousand pounds secured 
under my mother’s marriage settlement, of course I wrote, offer- 
ing to release her from her engagement. 

“ Yes,” said William Hughes, nodding his head again thought- 
fully. 

“ She — she accepted my offer at once, in the coldest possible 
terms, and within three months she married a rich fellow whom 
she used to make fun of to me.” Hughes drew in his breath 
sharply between his teeth, as a man does who has received a sud- 
den hurt. But he said nothing. And, after a moment, Hazel 
went on : “ About the same time I got an offer from one of my 
mother’s cousins in the Midlands to put me into his house of 
business, if I would leave the army and buckle to work. It might 
have been a good opening. Any way, it was a kind offer. But 
I had been very hard hit, and I had no heart to look forward. 
You see I had nobody to work for. My poor dad was gone — 
died after a week’s illness — and I thought then — I was only three- 
and-twenty — that I should never care to marry. So I refused the 
offer, and stuck to the service, and I have managed to peg along 
well enough by myself. But I am thirty years old ; I have noth- 
ing in the world but what I have told you ; and while things jog 
on quietly, I have but little prospect of rapid advancement in my 
profession. So you see I’m not exactly what we would call an 
eligible match ; and, supposing I met with a woman who fulfilled 
my ideal of everything that’s best and loveliest and most lovable 
in her sex, it would be my duty to hold my tongue, and take care 
that if there must be any heartache in the case, none of it should 
fall to her share. You think I’m right, don’t you?” 

William, who had been leaning with his elbow on the table, and 
shading his eyes with his hand, now looked full at the other man, 
and said, in a low voice, “ Yes ; you are right.” 

Then, with an instinctive and simultaneous movement, they 
shook hands. 

After that they talked long together, but the rest of their con- 
versation is not material to the events of this story. They parted 
at half-past one o’clock in the morning — an hour at which no in- 
mate of Thornfield Farm (barring the mice and the crickets) was 


108 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


ever known to be audibly social. And Hazel’s last words were: 
“ I suppose there’s nothing for it but to stick to the array. If my 
kinsman, the ironmaster, would but take it into his head to give 
me another chance ! But that’s idle talking. Perhaps I shall 
come home some day, a sun-dried, yellow-skinned, crabbed old 
fellow, to grumble, Britishly, on my half-pay. Your pictures will 
be fetching a thousand pounds apiece by that time, and Bar — 
Miss Copley — will have been married many a year. Say the last 
good-by to her for me, will you, Hughes ? I couldn’t — I shall be 
off before she is awake to-morrow.” 

Then, answering the look in William’s eyes, he added : “ No ; 
don’t be low-spirited on my account, old fellow. The world will 
be a sweeter place to me henceforward for knowing that she’s 
in it.” 

A part of this conversation William Hughes had repeated to 
his niece ; and he was pleased with his own diplomacy in choosing 
which part of it he would leave unsaid. Barbara must be shielded 
from all pain in the matter: there Hazel was entirely right. And 
it would grieve her to think she had been, however innocently, 
the cause of pain to another. Barbara was not the kind of girl 
who would be apt to imagine herself the object of a hopeless at- 
tachment. And still less was she likely to dream of giving her 
own heart unsolicited. As to that, William felt quite secure. 

Barbara did not dream of it; but she thought of Gilbert Hazel 
more frequently than any one suspected. Silence, as well as 
speech, may come out of the fulness of the heart. 

After hearing his story from her uncle, a sentiment of pity was 
added to sympathy and liking. Although Mr. Hazel had been so 
reticent and uncomplaining, it was clear to her mind that his 
father had been culpably rash in speculating with his fortune; and 
then that girl who deserted him in his poverty ! She was rich, 
and she had coldly given him up ! The chief luxury of wealth, 
to Barbara’s thinking, must be the ability to help those we love. 
How could a woman voluntarily forego such a privilege? She 
could not have really loved him ! And then Barbara would fall 
to wondering how much he had loved her, and whether it had 
been merely a boyish fancy, to be replaced hereafter by a truer 
and deeper love. Uncle William would have been more success- 
fully diplomatic if he had kept Hazel’s story wholly to himself. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


109 


However, Barbara was in no danger of wasting her time or her 
feelings in idle sentimentality. She was busy, and she was cheer- 
ful in her own quiet way ; and although it is not wholesome to 
live on day-dreams, yet as much dreaming as Barbara ever in- 
dulged in during the twilight hour of rest only refreshed her 
spirit, jaded sometimes by contact with the commonplace, narrow, 
and uncultured minds among whom her occupations chiefly lay. 
If, as Gilbert Hazel had declared, the world was the sweeter to 
him for knowing that she was in it, Barbara, on her part, was 
strengthened by thinking on his courage under disappointment, 
and his manliness in bearing unmerited hardships, although she 
did not know the worst of his troubles. 

Miss Hughes’s spoken reminiscences had rambled on, and had 
finally ceased; and the speaker had fallen into silent meditation, 
and from that into a comfortable doze. She awoke after about 
a quarter of an hour, and said, as if there had been no break in 
the conversation, “ But in talking about my visitor and about old 
times, I have never asked you how you got on with Lady Lamb- 
ton to-day.” 

Barbara readily gave an account of what had passed. Her ac- 
count might not have satisfied Amy — but then, how few of us 
would be satisfied in overhearing what our fellow-creatures say of 
us ! — t) U t Barbara spoke in no carping spirit. Her aunt listened 
complacently with little nods and smiles, and occasional shrewd 
remarks as to Lady Lambton’s having made a good bargain by 
securing an accompanist who was also a competent teacher. 
“ But,” said she, “ we need not grudge her that advantage, since 
she treats you with the politeness due to you as a lady ; and she 
will doubtless recommend you. It will be an opening — an intro- 
duction. Mr. Hofmann was speaking of it only this afternoon, 
and expressed himself much pleased that you had accepted Lady 
Lambton’s offer. He takes a very great interest in your success, 
Barbara.” 

“ He takes a very great interest in Lady Lambton, at any rate !” 
answered Barbara, smiling. 

“ What ? Oh, of course, Barbara, no one can take an interest 
in you ! That is quite your Uncle William’s tone — I don’t mean 
about you, but about himself. I have no patience with such non- 
sense !” 


no 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Barbara hesitated for a moment, fighting against a shy feeling 
which she could not — or, at all events, did not — explain to her- 
self. Then she said, “But, Aunt Judith, T do believe that Mr. 
Hofmann feels a very special interest in Lady Lambton. She is 
extremely handsome and attractive, and he admires her very much, 
lie shows it openly.” 

This time no quick, petulant answer came from Aunt Judith. 
She turned her head to peer at Barbara’s face, rose-tinted by the 
firelight, and remained as though struck with silence. 

Then the tea-tray was brought, and the lamp was lighted, and 
the talk between the aunt and niece went to other topics. 

They debated whether they should, or should not, accept an 
invitation which had reached them for the following Saturday. 
Mrs. Green, the flower-painter, whose studio was in the same 
house as that of William Hughes, had begged Miss Copley and 
her aunt to join a small, select party who were to meet at her 
house for the purpose of enjoying what Mrs. Green called a “ con- 
versazione.” 

The meaning of this word — like the immortal “swarry” in 
“ Pickwick,” which w r as taken to signify a boiled leg of mutton 
and trimmings — was somewhat elastic in Mrs. Green’s mouth. It 
always stood for a social entertainment in general ; but it varied 
from time to time as to the particular nature of the entertainment. 
On the present occasion it was explained to include music, read- 
ings, and recitations, together with as much “ conversazione ” (in 
the natural sense of the word) as could be squeezed into the in- 
tervals. 

Barbara was inclined to refuse, Aunt Judith to accept, the invi- 
tation. Miss Hughes held views on the subject of her own affa- 
bility, and its efficacy in winning grateful recognition, analogous 
to those of Lady Lambton. She was convinced that “ poor Mrs. 
Green ” and her friends would be modestly elated by the honor 
of her presence. “ Of course, my dear,” she said, “ they are un- 
derbred, fourth-rate people. But Mrs. Green has been kind and 
neighborly to your uncle, in her well-meaning way ; and I think 
Wfilliam would wish us to be civil to her.” 

This argument was decisive with Barbara, and she made no 
further opposition. As for Aunt Judith’s motives for choosing to 
go to Mrs. Green’s party, it must be owned that she had a certain 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Ill 


pleasure in the idea of being a Triton among minnows. But the 
reason she had alleged to Barbara was none the less genuine and 
operative in determining her. Hypocrisy was not among Judith 
Hughes’s faults. And if the clear current of her good intentions 
was tinged here and there by some earthier tributaries, they were 
not strong enough to discolor the main body of the stream. 

And, then, Aunt Judith was sociable by nature, and was at this 
time disposed to enjoy herself cheerfully. But a short time had 
elapsed since Fritz Hofmann first beheld Barbara Copley in the 
Cockney halo of a butcher’s gaslight, and yet those weeks had 
brought an appreciative increase of prosperity to the Hugheses’ 
humble household. William had been unexpectedly enabled to 
go to Switzerland and look after Claude — an object which they 
all had much at heart ; Barbara had been engaged by Lady Lamb- 
ton at the moment when she was about to lose her pupils, the 
Ketterings, for the winter; and, best of all, the news from Vevey 
was reassuring as to Claude’s health. 

Claude’s letters home had been much less querulous. It is true 
that he still set forth various subjects of discontent, but they were 
not such as to cause much uneasiness on his behalf. He was quite 
unconstrained in writing to his Aunt Judith, of whose judgment 
he stood in no kind of awe. And he justified his preference of 
Mrs. Armour’s society over that of the other boarders, not only 
by praises of his charming friend, but by the most contemptuous 
description of the rest of Madame Martin’s inmates. And on both 
points Aunt Judith sympathized with him. 

Claude had not mentioned in his letters that Mrs. Armour was 
a daughter of Hr. Kirby. He had omitted that information sim- 
ply because it had not interested him, and had slipped from his 
memory. To him the name of Kirby had no special significance. 
And warmly as he admired the fascinating Juliet Armour, the 
point on which his attention was focused was her attitude tow- 
ards himself. 

Altogether, Aunt Judith saw reason to be hopeful and cheerful 
at this time. Young Hofmann’s visit had contributed to raise her 
spirits still more ; and she was prepared to enjoy the company of 
Mrs. Green’s select circle of friends. 

It was a favorite saying with William Hughes, and in keeping 
with the serenity and cheerful ge3s of his philosophy, that the poor 


112 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


have a keener enjoyment of small pleasures than the rich ! “Small 
pleasant things are continually happening to Croesus,” he would 
say. “ But they pass unnoticed, being matters of course. Where- 
as Croesus is very sensitive to small wwpleasant things — such as 
his soup not being flavored to perfection, or his wife’s diamonds 
being eclipsed by those of Mrs. Dives.” 

Aunt Judith would meet such speeches with a shake of the 
head, and the remark that William, of all people, ought to know 
how hard poverty is, poor dear ! 

But on the present occasion the good old lady offered in her 
own person a lively illustration of William’s argument; for what 
fine lady, dressed by the most expensive of man-milliners, could 
feel one tithe of the interest and pleasure in her court-gown which 
Miss Hughes took in the trimming of a new cap for the “con- 
versazione ” ? 

Mrs. Green’s dwelling consisted only of the front room (which 
she called the studio) and a small closet where she slept. A larger 
room, with a north light, at the back of the house was William 
Hughes’s painting - room ; and he had, as we know, given his 
neighbor leave to use it in his absence. This increase of space 
enabled Mrs. Green to hold her “conversazione” on a scale of un- 
exampled dignity. Tea and coffee were served in her own studio, 
while William’s was devoted to the more spiritual entertainments 
of the evening. 

When Miss Hughes and her niece arrived, some two dozen per- 
sons were already assembled in the front room, whence was heard 
a buzz of voices mingled with the chink of cups and saucers. The 
female guests were received on the landing by a young woman (a 
seamstress in the neighborhood), who took off their cloaks and 
shawls, and carried them by a back way into Mrs. Green’s bed- 
room. 

It was a work of some time to divest Miss Hughes of her 
galoshes, her cloak, her knitted shawl, and a big black-silk hood, 
and to substitute for the latter the newly trimmed cap, which had 
been brought in a paper parcel. And while these operations were 
being accomplished, Barbara heard fragments of the talk going 
on in the studio. 

All at once she caught the sound of a name which drew her 
attention with a jerk, as when one is suddenly plucked by the 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


113 


sleeve. It was a name that she had heard only on one occasion ; 
but the occasion was too momentous to her to be forgotten. 

She looked quickly at her aunt. But Miss Hughes was absorbed 
in the adjustment of her new cap. Perhaps, too, her hearing, 
although still good, was less acute than it had once been. Barbara 
remembered every word of the tragical family story which her aunt 
had narrated to her, and she was quite sure of the name of the 
man who had played so fatal a part in it. That name she now 
heard repeated several times — “ Mr. Christopher Dalton,” and once 
“ Chris Dalton.” 

Her first impulse was to rejoice that her uncle William was 
not there. To herself, the associations connected with that name 
were sad, but not heart-rending. Barbara made no exaggerated 
pretences. But to her uncle they would be painful in a very 
different degree. 

Just as she and Aunt Judith were entering the studio, a burly, 
bald-headed man was saying, in a pompous tone, to a lady near 
him, “ Oh, cousins ! Yes, no doubt, in the event of — oh, in case of 
a division of the property, a first-cousin would, of course — but why 
should we assume that Mr. Christopher Dalton will neglect to make 
a will ? I was pretty deep in his confidence at one time, and I 
can tell you that I have reason to believe he won’t do anything of 
the kind!” 


CHAPTER XY. 

Mrs. Green, the hostess, came forward to welcome Miss Hughes 
and Miss Copley in a manner which made Aunt Judith whisper 
to Barbara, “Poor soul, she is indeed delighted ! I am very glad 
we came.” 

Mrs. Green was a short, fat woman of sixty, with a light-brown 
curly wig, and a florid, good-humored face. She was dressed in 
black cotton velvet trimmed with white crochet lace, and she wore, 
tied round her throat by a red ribbon, a nondescript ornament of 
tarnished silver set with colored stones, which she called, generi- 
cally, “an antique,” but whereof the specific purpose and designa- 
tion were unknown. 

8 


114 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


As she shook hands with Miss Hughes, the two women presented 
a singular contrast to each other. Mrs. Green, fussy, vulgar, and 
with something in her manner as well as her dress suggestive of 
cheap imitations, but still with that look of alert and prompt in- 
telligence which is acquired by those who fight the battle of life 
in great cities. Miss Hughes, in her plain silk gown and daintily 
frilled cap with pale lavender ribbons, her silky white curls, soft 
dark eyes, and apple-rosy cheeks, seemed to bring with her a 
perfume of old-fashioned refinement, and a kind of bloom of 
simplicity — worlds removed from stupidity — which neither years 
nor sorrows had brushed away. 

The other guests looked at her with some curiosity ; and Blanche 
Shortway whispered to her sister Eleanor, “ What a lovely old 
lady !” Whereto Eleanor, who was in a temporary phase of 
enthusiasm for what may be termed the lorn and lanky school of 
Art, answered, critically, “ Too conventional.” 

On their part, the new-comers glanced about them, observing 
the scene and its occupants. 

The room was lofty in proportion to its size. The walls — of a 
gray tint — considerably toned down from the brightness of its 
original purity by the smoke of many London winters — were 
hung with specimens of Mrs. Green’s flower-painting ; and above 
the high, carved, wooden mantelpiece was fixed a group of fans 
painted by her, and brought forth from their wrappings of tissue 
paper expressly to grace the present festal occasion. There were 
no curtains to the three long, narrow windows, daylight being 
precious, and not plentiful ; but dingy holland blinds were drawn 
down at night. The room was brightly illuminated with gas, and 
warmed by a good fire, and looked cheerful, if neither elegant nor 
luxurious. 

A large round table, which in the daytime was pushed into one 
corner to make room for the drawing class, and which usually held 
a miscellaneous assortment of articles, such as pencils, color- 
boxes, old gloves, groups of half-faded flowers in water, one or 
two dog-eared books, dusty photographs, newspapers, and a bundle 
of Mrs. Green’s cards of terms for teaching, had been covered with 
a white cloth, and drawn into the middle of the room. It now 
supported a large and varied collection of cups and saucers, plates 
and dishes, as well as a huge metal teapot, and an etna, over which 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


115 


a little tin tea-kettle boiled and bubbled. The tea was fragrant, 
and the cakes, sandwiches, and bread-and-butter were excellent in 
quality and abundant in quantity. Mrs. Green had her illusions, 
but with respect to eating and drinking she kept a firm grasp on 
the realities of life. She knew quite well that the most enthu- 
siastically aesthetic of her guests would greatly prefer a liberal 
allowance of palatable food and strong tea served on common 
crockery, and poured from a cheap teapot, to stingy fare out of 
rare china and Queen Anne silver. 

The assembled company comprised several individuals whose 
acquaintance the reader has already made. Besides Blanche and 
Eleanor Shortway, their mother was present. She had with diffi- 
culty been persuaded to take the trouble of coming. But there 
she sat, smiling and handsome, dressed in a species of sage-green 
bag (designed by Eleanor), which would have made most women 
look frightful. There was even some hope that Mr. Shortway 
might appear before the evening was over, Saturday being his 
free night. There was Mr. Percival Snagge, who posed as the 
lion of the evening; and Mr. Coney, looking as intensely Shake- 
spearian as baldness, full knickerbockers, and a falling collar could 
make him ; and Mr. Toller and Mr. Green, nephew of the hostess, 
and it was currently rumored that Mr. Mortimer Hopkins might 
be expected by and by. 

There were, moreover, two or three girl art students, with fresh, 
pretty faces, and a Russian girl whose sallow face was neither fresh 
nor pretty, and whose pale blond hair was cut short, and stood 
upon end above a low, flat forehead, but who was reported to have 
a magnificent contralto voice. She was studying singing with a 
professor unknown to fame, but pronounced by his friends (on 
his own testimony) to be the first singing-master in Europe, and 
to possess a unique and infallible method of forming the voice. 
Indeed, it was surprising how much acknowledged genius there 
was among Mrs. Green’s guests. 

However, if inglorious, they were by no means mute. The 
babble of talk rose higher and higher until people were shouting 
in each others’ ears, all unconscious of the pitch of their voices. 
But all at once Mrs. Green, having succeeded in attracting the gen- 
eral attention by rapping sharply on the tin tea-kettle with the han- 
dle of a spoon, invited the company to pass into the adjoining room. 


116 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


A momentary silence followed this request, which seemed 
mysteriously to have chilled the atmosphere. Nearly all present 
understood that the real business of the evening — that which Mrs. 
Green intended to signify by the word “ conversazione ” — was now 
to commence, and that some gifted individual was about to enter- 
tain them. But the invitation was not to be resisted. Some even 
obeyed it with alacrity. These were themselves gifted individuals 
who intended to do their share of entertaining by and by ; and the 
social contract which obtained on these occasions made listening 
to your neighbor’s performance the indispensable condition of 
being allowed to perform yourself. 

A few persons, however, lingered in the tea-room. Among 
these was Miss Hughes. She had been installed, bv Mrs. Green’s 
especial care, in a comfortable chair near the fire, and supplied 
with a cup of tea, which she emphatically pronounced to be ex- 
cellent. 

And then, quite near to Miss Hughes, sat Mrs. Shortway. She 
shared her daughter Blanche’s admiration for the pretty old lady, 
and having learned that she was related to Mr. William Hughes, the 
artist, she begged to be introduced to her. Aunt Judith, on her 
side, had been attracted by Mrs. Shortway’s handsome, good- 
tempered face. She was very sensitive to beauty — like most 
persons who possess, or have possessed, it themselves — and her 
bow and smile were very gracious. 

Mrs. Shortway was perfectly contented with the old lady’s 
slightly condescending salute. She was the most humble-minded 
of women as regarded her own claims and merits. About Maurice 
and the girls, indeed, she could be almost boastful. But that was 
a different matter. 

It was not long, however, before Aunt Judith’s little icing of 
dignity melted completely. Her warm heart responded to the 
simple kindliness of the other woman’s nature. And she discovered 
in the very first sentence of their conversation that Mrs. Shortway, 
though homely, was not vulgar. “ She is really very nice,” thought 
Aunt Judith to herself. “ What a pity she has nothing better to 
wear than that hideous gown 1” 

And in a few minutes they were chatting together with the 
pleasantest air in the world. 

Meanwhile, Miss Copley had been consigned by the hostess to 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


117 


the care of her nephew, young Green, and by him escorted into 
Mr. Hughes’s studio. This room was, of course, familiar to Bar- 
bara; but it wore a new aspect to-night. It was always bare 
enough of furniture, but what little there was had been pushed 
aside into one corner, with the exception of a couple of rush- 
bottomed chairs. These had been pressed into the service of the 
guests, and were placed in company with three or four rows of 
other chairs, as incongruous in shape and size as the army of Bom- 
bastes, and a rear-guard consisting of two dilapidated rout seats 
and a school bench. 

In the absence of gas, the illumination was effected by means 
of a large moderator lamp on the mantelpiece, and some candles 
in tin reflectors stuck against the wall. A shabby cottage piano- 
forte, lent for the occasion by the owner of a small music-shop 
recently set up in the neighborhood, was placed under the large 
north window, tastefully draped with cotton sheeting; and many 
of William Hughes’s sketches and studies still hung on the walls. 
A coke fire, burning in the rusty iron grate, gave a baked flavor 
to the atmosphere. 

At the end of the room opposite to the door stood a little deal 
table covered with a dingy tartan shawl, and holding a glass water- 
bottle and a tumbler. 

There is no apparatus of such seeming harmlessness — except, 
perhaps, the perfidious easy-chair of the dentist — that can so 
depress the human spirit by the mere look of it. A slight gloom 
overshadowed the faces of the company on the present occasion 
when they saw that table. But for the most part they did not 
recognize the cause of their low spirits, and, indeed, many of them 
did not even know they were low-spirited. They supposed them- 
selves merely to be taking a commendably earnest view of Art 
and Poetry. 

Barbara refused the honor of a front chair, where Mr. Green 
would have placed her, and modestly sat down on a bench at the 
back. The young man remained beside her for a while, naming 
such of the guests as he thought were entitled to that distinction. 

“ Mr. Percival Snagge — a very remarkable artist; has invented 
a new system of coloring. His paintings are considered to be 
quite in the style of Titian ; and he lives in Italy himself ; so, 
of course — Mademoiselle Olga Rafalovitch. Splendid voice ! 


118 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


That’s her singing-master, Herr Patzke, leaning with his elbow 
on the piano. lie is a native of — well, I don’t exactly remem- 
ber where he comes from, but I think from Prague. Wonderful 
method of forming his voice ! I am no musician myself, but I 
have heard good judges say that none of the most celebrated 
teachers in Europe are able to touch him.” 

It occurred to Barbara that the celebrated teachers might the 
less regret this inability, since Herr Patzke looked extremely in 
need of a brush and soap and water. But she merely bowed 
politely, and said, “ Indeed !” 

“Those two young ladies in the daffodil-colored gowns are 
daughters of Maurice Shortway, the art critic. Of course you 
know his name.” 

Barbara had never heard it. But she was willing to attribute 
the ignorance to her own obscurity, and not to Mr. Shortway ’s. 

“ And there,” continued young Green, lowering his voice in an 
impressive manner — “ there is Coney, just about to give us a read- 
ing. He is one of the most profound Shakespearian scholars of 
the day.” 

“ Is he ?” exclaimed Barbara, looking at Mr. Coney with some 
irrepressible astonishment in her eyes ; for she now for the first 
time saw his figure at full length. 

O o 

“ Yes ; he knows at least half a dozen of the plays by heart. 
You may put him on anywhere. And of course you see the 
likeness? Striking, isn’t it?” 

At this moment Mr. Coney stalked majestically to the little 
deal table, and stood behind it. A faint murmur of applause 
arose. But from the back of the room near the door came a 
warmer greeting. Mr. Mortimer Hopkins newly arrived, and 
resplendent in a crimson velvet waistcoat and white kid gloves, 
clapped his hands together and cried, “Year, year!” encourag- 
ingly. 

Mrs. Green stood up and faced the company. “ Mr. Nathaniel 
Coney,” she announced, in a loud voice, “ will now favor us by 
reciting an act from Shakespeare’s play, “ As You Like It.” One 
act !” she added, emphatically. Long experience had taught her 
the necessity of rigidly limiting individual contributions to the 
general feast of a “ conversazione.” 

Mr. Coney, however, to some degree indemnified himself for 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


119 


the limit set to his performance by prefacing it with some criti- 
cal remarks on the actors of the day. These remarks were all 
unfavorable. Mr. Coney regretted to be severe ; but his artistic 
conscience compelled him to severity. (Where, indeed, shall we 
look for a moral force so irresistible as that of conscience, when 
it moves us to find fault?) Yet he would not condemn the whole 
race of the modern players too sweepingly. There were depart- 
ments of the drama in which they were not destitute of merit. 
But with Shakespeare no living tragedian or comedian could deal 
adequately. And then Mr. Coney proceeded to deal with him 
himself. 

Mr. Coney — like some other distinguished critics — was stronger 
in theory than practice. As a matter of fact, his style of elocu- 
tion was founded on that of a leading tragedian whom he had 
admired at the Theatre Royal, Stafford, in his boyhood ; and was 
just such as one might expect to hear from a third-rate provin- 
cial actor. Every craftsman is, of course, vitiis imitabilis ; and 
this is a trap for smartness. But what could Mr. Coney do ? He 
was obliged to imitate somebody. 

The moment the recitation was at an end, there was a general 
movement among the audience. Some rose from their seats with 
an excited expectation of being presently called to perform them- 
selves. Some crowded round Mr. Coney to thank him for the 
intellectual treat he had given them. (This striking phrase was 
used by young Green, nervously biding his time with a copy of 
his own verses in his pocket.) A few persons formed a select au- 
dience for Mr. Snagge, who hovered near the little deal table, and 
held forth about Titian — as a man might talk of some recently 
patented invention of his own — to all who would listen. 

Barbara hoped that she might be able to slip away unnoticed 
and rejoin her aunt. She had just risen from her seat on the 
back benches, when she saw a young man wearing a red velvet 
waistcoat pull young Green by the sleeve, and whisper a few 
words to him ; and the next moment they approached her to- 
gether. 

Mr. Green said, with evident reluctance and hesitation, “ Will 
you allow me to introduce a friend of mine, Miss Copley ? Mr. 
Mortimer Hopkins. I — I hope you won’t mind.” And with this 
not too enthusiastic word on behalf of his friend, he left them. 


120 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Barbara, in the gentleness of her heart, could not help feeling 
a little sorry for the young man thus deprecatingly introduced ; 
and she gave him a kind smile as she said, “ I know your name 
very well.” 

Now Mr. Mortimer Hopkins, albeit not over-modest or diffident 
of himself, was deprived for a moment of his usual self-possession. 
Miss Copley was a very different person from any young woman 
with whom he had ever talked on equal terms. The very sim- 
plicity of her manner seemed to abash him. He soon rallied, 
however, and said, with his genteelest air, “You allude, perhaps, 
to my father ? Yes ; he is connected with Art in the way of 
business. I am only a dillytant, myself. But a few of us who 
feel a little different to the common herd on the subject of poe- 
try and painting, and culture, are in the ’abit of meeting at my 
rooms occasionally. My friends consider these meetings rather 
in the light of an oasis, I believe. I’ve had the pleasure of re- 
ceiving your uncle, Mr. Hughes, at one of my little bachelor parties. 

Barbara bowed. She had too vivid a remembrance of her 
uncle’s description of that festive gathering to trust herself to 
speak. 

“ But I’m afraid I’m keeping you standing !” said Mr. Morti- 
mer Hopkins, naively. Barbara explained that she had been 
about to go back into the next room, finding the one where they 
were rather oppressively warm. 

If she had supposed that Mr. Hopkins would take this state- 
ment as a dismissal she was mistaken. He at once begged the 
honor of escorting her; and as soon as they were in the adjoin- 
ing room, he officiously insisted on getting her a cup of tea and 
finding her a comfortable seat. Barbara glanced at her aunt. 
Mrs. Shortway was still sitting near her, and one or two gentle- 
men had joined the group. Miss Hughes was evidently receiving 
a good deal of attention, and was smiling and chatting with great 
animation. She did not even perceive her niece’s entrance. 

It rejoiced Barbara’s heart to see the old lady enjoying herself, 
although for her own part she would a thousand times rather have 
spent the evening at home ; and she desired nothing so much as 
to escape the notice of the people around her. 

But from Mr. Mortimer Hopkins’s notice she could not escape. 
He was evidently bent upon talking to her. Fortunately, he did 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


121 


not appear to expect many words from her in return, so she 
resigned herself to listen. 

Mortimer began by giving a sketch of his own artistic views 
and principles, as being a subject likely to interest Miss Copley. 
The sketch was rather indistinct ; but that might be owing to a 
taste for what his father called “smudginess of execution ” — a taste 
which has, at all events, the advantage of being far easier to grat- 
ify, whether with tongue, pen, or pencil, than the desire for clear 
outlines. But he did not dwell on this theme long. He soon 
proceeded — very unaccountably, as it seemed to Barbara — to 
descant on the gentility of his family connections (by the moth- 
er’s side) and the brilliancy of his worldly prospects; and at 
length he startled her by saying, “ You may have heard, Miss 
Copley, in society — for I know the topic has been broached in 
quite fashionable circles — mention made of Mr. Christopher Dal- 
ton. Well, he is a near relation of mine — own grand-uncle; and 
my grandmother was his favorite sister.” 

Mr. Mortimer Hopkins had certainly now succeeded in capti- 
vating his hearer’s attention. With ever-increasing astonishment, 
Barbara listened to the story of Mr. Dalton’s great wealth (which 
lost nothing, we may be sure, in the young man’s mouth), of his 
eccentric and lonely life, and of the speculations which had arisen 
respecting the inheritance of his money. She heard, too, that, 
taking into consideration the possibility of Mr. Dalton’s dying 
without a will, Mortimer and his father had made it their busi- 
ness to look into the family genealogy — which word, the accurate 
reporter must own, young Hopkins pronounced “ geneology ” — 
and had discovered, or so they believed, the names of all Dalton’s 
living relatives. “ Not that I’m more mercenary than my neigh- 
bors, and have no call to be,” said Mortimer. “ Only a man 
likes to know how he stands. There’s only two persons nearer 
than myself — the two surviving daughters of his sister, Mrs. Kir- 
by. One’s an old maid, and the other a widow without any chil- 
dren. Then there’s a first-cousin by the mother’s side — not a 
Dalton at all — and her family. (There she sits ! That very lady 
close beside Miss Hughes. I believe I’m right in naming Miss 
Hughes, though without the honor of an introduction.) And 
one or two collaterals. Astonishing how relations turn up di- 
rectly there’s any money in question ! But my friend Mr. Coney 


122 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


is strongly of opinion that there will be a legal testament ; and 
that your humble servant is likely to be the chief legatee. Of 
course it is only an opinion. But Coney’s an uncommonly hard- 
headed chap in private life. Hearing him to-night, you might 
imagine he was wrapped up in poetry and the ’igher literature of 
the drama, and all that. But when it comes to pounds, shillings, 
and pence, if I may permit myself the expression in talking to a 
lady — lie’s uncommonly shrewd, I assure you.” 

Strange as all this story was, the strangest part of it, Barbara 
thought, was that it should have been told to her ! Why in the 
world had this young man chosen her as the recipient of these 
family confidences? 

She might not have guessed why, even if she could have over- 
heard Mr. Mortimer Hopkins mysteriously holding forth to Messrs. 
Toller and Green that night in his own lodgings, whither the 
three friends repaired after the conversazione, to refresh them- 
selves with hot grog and cigars. 

“ Miss Copley,” said Mortimer, with a sort of lachrymose lofti- 
ness (referable in part to the grog), “ is the bright ideal of a poet’s 
fancy, and a perfect lady into the bargain. Enough ! To say 
more at present were premature. Any man calling himself my 
friend will know how to respect my confidence.” 

Toller was much impressed by these utterances. But Green, 
who, apart from his poetry, did not want for common-sense, 
smiled a little to himself, and shook his head dubiously. How- 
ever, since every sentiment of good-fellowship must prompt a man 
to get outside his friend’s house before audibly pronouncing him 
an ass, the trio parted very amicably. 

Barbara did not think it necessary to repeat to her aunt what 
she had heard about Dalton. Elis fortunes, good or bad, must 
be, she told herself, apart from theirs forevermore. And why 
should she cloud Aunt Judith’s cheerful mood with the dark 
memories connected with that man ? 

The old lady was in high spirits as they drove home (having 
made the journey to Mrs. Green’s partly on foot and partly in 
an omnibus, they had agreed to give themselves the extraordinary 
luxury of a cab to carry them home). “ Really, Barbara,” she 
said, “everybody was particularly pleasant and civil — uncom- 
monly so. Mrs. Green, most well-meaning, poor soul ! And Mrs. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


123 


Shortway. Oh, what do you think I have discovered about Mrs. 
Shortway, my dear ?” 

Barbara dreaded for an instant to hear Dalton’s name. But 
Aunt Judith went on volubly, “She is Lady Lambton’s mother, 
child ! Fancy that !” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It was certain that Lady Lambton would have disliked to hear 
that her mother had made the acquaintance of her repetiteuse, as 
she called Miss Copley, under any circumstances ; but that the 
introduction should have been made by Mrs. Green, the flower- 
painter, amidst Mrs. Green’s friends and associates, she felt to be 
a peculiar aggravation of her annoyance. 

The news was revealed to her a few mornings after the famous 

CD 

conversazione, when she was calling in Gower Street. Her visits 
there had become more frequent since she had taken to catechise 
her mother about the days of her youth, when she knew Dalton, 
and to gather up any old stories and familiar allusions that might 
be woven into her letters, with the view of touching that exiled 
millionaire’s heart, and turning it towards England and his affec- 
tionate relatives. 

To Amy’s amazement and chagrin, she found her mother brim- 
ful of enthusiasm about “ that beautiful old Miss Hughes ” and 
“ that sweet, refined-looking creature, Miss Copley,” and describ- 
ing her introduction to them in her own impulsive and discursive 
manner. 

And the worst of it was that she could not plainly allege all 
her reasons for being angry. At the bottom of her heart she was 
chiefly vexed that Miss Copley should have seen her family mix- 
ing on familiar terms with people so utterly undistinguished and 
vulgar. If even Mrs. Shortway had appeared at Mrs. Green’s 
ridiculous party with something of a condescending and patron- 
izing air, the thing would not have been so mortifying. But she 
knew her mother too well to hope that she had behaved with 
judicious dignity. “ If that horrid woman had wanted some extra 


124 


TI1AT WILD WHEEL. 


teacups washed, mamma was as likely as not to volunteer to do 
it !” thought Lady Lambton in her wrath. 

But there was more annoyance to come. She very soon learned 
from her mother that Christopher Dalton had been freely spoken 
of, and that a young man of the name of Ilopkins had told her 
(Mrs. Shortway) that he was aware of her relationship to the rich, 
eccentric Mr. Dalton, and had announced himself as that gentle- 
man’s grand-nephew. 

This news filled Amy’s mind with jealous apprehensions. She 
had already felt an indistinct suspicion that crowds of competi- 
tors for the rich man’s favor, and candidates for his inheritance, 
were ready at a word to start up in every direction. And the 
dreadful idea occurred to her that if Dalton found himself pur- 
sued and molested by a pack of legacy-hunters, he might take 
sudden offence, and bequeath all his money to build hospitals! 

Here, at any rate, was avowable cause for being angry. Amy 
fairly lost her temper, and would have quarrelled with her mother, 
if her mother had given her the smallest assistance towards doing 
so. This was the consequence of her being hail-fellow-well-met 
with every twopenny person who chose to invite them ! Why could 
not the girls confine themselves to business relations with Mrs. 
Green — pay her for the drawing class, or the model, or whatever it 
was — without plunging into an intimacy with the woman ? Pleas- 
ant, indeed, to be publicly claimed as a relation by young Hopkins! 

“ Oh, he didn’t claim me, Amy,” said Mrs. Shortway, with pro- 
voking placidity. “ He let me understand that he knew I was 
only related on the female side. And he would have known that 
all the same, my dear, whether I had gone to Mrs. Green’s or not: 
wouldn’t he, now ? So I don’t see what harm it could do, Amy — ” 

“ But I do ! Harm ! I have some respect for myself, and 
some value for my own position. I object to having my name 
bandied about, and my family affairs discussed among a set of 
shop-boys and milliners’ girls.” 

“ Oh, I don’t believe that the bulk of the people there took the 
least interest in us, dear ! But as to talking — why, the more dis- 
tinguished the person, the more he or she is talked about. They 
talk about the queen herself, you know !” 

But Amy was not to be soothed by any such philosophic reflec- 
tions. She flew home in a towering passion. And, strange to 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


125 


say, the thought that most persistently rankled in her mind — to 
the exclusion even of Christopher Dalton and his dollars — was, 
that Miss Copley should have beheld her mother and sisters famil- 
iarly frequenting such low society. To be sure, Miss Copley was 
the last person in the world to presume on such a circumstance. 
Lady Lambton freely admitted that. And yet — Her imagina- 
tion kept busying itself with what had passed at the conversazione. 
She could fancy the whole scene : her sisters dressed after the 
latest aesthetic pattern, and talking the latest aesthetic slang ; her 
mother (whom the girls, no doubt, had made a guy of !) beaming 
upon everybody without any idea that it behooved her to conde- 
scend ; Miss Copley in a simple — probably shabby — black frock, 
silent, serene, and gentle as she was accustomed to see her. 

The picture irritated her; and she at length finally turned away 
from it with a sort of mental toss of the head. 

London was very dull just now. The Ketterings and many 
other of her friends were away ; yet Lady Lambton did not feel 
time hang heavy on her hands. She could find life interesting 
under a great variety of circumstances, provided only that one 
indispensable condition were present — the excitement of an au- 
dience; what she called “sympathy.” And that condition was 
lacking now, for Fritz Hofmann still remained in town ; and Fritz 
Hofmann made an excellent audience. 

She looked forward to enjoying a confidential talk with young 
Hofmann. She had resolved to speak to him about Mr. Dalton. 
Since young Hopkins, and persons of that stamp, were freely 
boasting of their relationship to the rich man, there could be no 
reason why Lady Lambton should not mention her own. It might 
even be prudent to do so. It certainly would be pleasant in the 
case of Mr. Hofmann. 

As she thought thus, she wondered that he had not called on 
her before now. Possibly, he was a little diffident about coming 
without a more formal permission or invitation than he had yet 
received. Amy was in her drawing-room meditating how it would 
be best to word a little note that she was minded to write to him, 
when a maid-servant brought her a visiting-card, and asked if my 
lady would receive the gentleman whose name it bore. It ap- 
peared that my lady would, and the maid was ordered to show 
the visitor in. 


126 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Amy got up from her chair and cast a rapid glance, first at the 
looking-glass and then round the room. Her house at Brompton 
was small, and the drawing-room was by consequence small also. 
But it was a pretty little room, with a long window opening on 
to a tiny garden. The garden, however, was surrounded by trees 
growing in neighboring gardens of more dignity, and was peace- 
fully secluded. The window was shut on this October afternoon, 
and a bright fire burned on the hearth. Much of the furniture 
was old-fashioned, but with an unfashionable old-fasliionedness 
that gave the room a quaint air of distinction. Amy had re- 
tained many articles belonging to the handsome provincial man- 
sion in which her husband had lived and died. There was an 
escritoire, a side-table, a tall, narrow bookcase with glass doors 
and a massive top, like the pediment of a Grecian temple, all of 
polished mahogany, black with age. These relics of the Georgian 
era were relieved against a delicate neutral-tinted wall-paper, cov- 
ered with a design in the very newest old style ; while some East- 
ern rugs on the floor, and posies of autumn flowers disposed on 
brackets and mantelpiece, gave a sufficient cheerfulness of color- 
ing to the whole. Enlivened as it now was by the figure of a 
strikingly-handsome and animated young woman, a man must 
have been either insensible or splenetic who did not find the aspect 
of the apartment mightily pleasant and attractive. The visitor, 
who was Fritz Hofmann, certainly found it so. 

“Oh, I am so glad to see you! I was just thinking of you,” 
said Lady Lambton, holding out her hand, and showdng her fine 
teeth in a frank smile. 

“ I am so glad to see you ” may be a most commonplace greet- 
ing, or a very flattering one. All depends on the tone in which 
it is said. Lady Lambton said it as if she meant it. And she 
did mean it : the flattery was enhanced by the subtle and inimita- 
ble aroma of truth. 

“ I dare not be too much elated by that, until I know what you 
were thinking of me !” said Fritz, bowing over the hand she ex- 
tended to him. 

“ I was thinking that I should like you to call, and I am think- 
ing now that it is a little provoking that you should have called 
just at this time. I want to speak to you, and my accompa- 
nist will be here in a few minutes. I warned you that I was 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


127 


engaged on Wednesdays up to four o’clock. You have forgot- 
ten.” 

“Not at all! I remembered it very well,” answered Fritz, 
boldly. 

“ Did you ?” with a quick, surprised look at him. 

“ Certainly. And that is why I chose to-day. You promised 
I should hear you sing. It is you who have forgotten.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think I promised ! Did I promise ? Well, well, 
we shall see. Sit down there. I want, first of all, to consult 
you.” 

“ I am proud and happy,” said Fritz, taking the chair she had 
pointed to, on the opposite side of the fire. 

No woman will ever be a dangerous flirt who has not a certain 
instinctive sensibility as to the morals and feelings of the man 
she flirts with. She may be beautiful, she may be clever; she 
may be accomplished ; many men may admire her, and some may 
fall in love with her. But she will possess no perilous fascination 
for the male sex in general. In this sort of sympathy — which 
has no more to do with the heart than have the motions of a 
skilful angler “playing” a fish at the end of his line — Lady 
Lambton was almost totally deficient. Her vanity had a touch of 
masculine robustness. If a man told her he was proud and happy 
to be consulted by her, or that he loved to hear her sing, or see 
her dance, or play cards, or eat her supper, she was so possessed 
with the antecedent probability of his statement that she would 
accept it literally, and without modification from looks and tones. 
She thus incurred the risk of being tedious ; and although a man 
may endure being tormented by a pretty woman, he will not sub- 
mit to be bored. 

On the present occasion Lady Lambton did not observe that 
her auditor seemed rather absent. She plunged at once into her 
subject. “You remember my telling you,” said she, “that I sus- 
pected the Christopher Dalton, about whom everybody was talking 
at Mrs. Kettering’s dinner-party, to be a kinsman of mine ! Well, 
it appears that my mother is one of his nearest living relations ! 
They were greatly attached to each other as boy and girl. Mam- 
ma had been urging me to write to him, and try to knit up again 
some of the old family feeling. But — the fact is, there seem to 
be so many claimants starting up unexpectedly, flocking abso- 


128 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


lately like vultures ! Isn’t it dreadful ? It makes me shrink from 
writing. Although I frankly admit that I see no reason why our 
side of the family should not get a fair share of his money if it 
is to be divided among his kindred, yet ” (with a fascinating 
smile) “ I really do not feel myself to be a vulture ! And as for 
poor dear mamma — who is quite the most unworldly creature I 
ever saw or heard of — she won’t even believe in her cousin’s riches ! 
For her, he is still the same Chris Dalton of auld lang-syne.” 

There was a momentary silence. Lady Lambton leaned for- 
ward with an eager gesture habitual with her when she was much 
interested, or desirous of appearing so. “ What do you think?” 
she asked. “ Shall I write, or shall I not ?” 

Again there was an instant’s pause, during which Fritz, whose 
ears were on the alert, made sure that he heard the street door 
open and shut again. 

“ Upon my word, I cannot see why you shouldn’t,” he said, 
with sudden animation. And the next moment the servant an- 
nounced Miss Copley. 

Lady Lambton made a little grimace of annoyance at the inter- 
ruption ; but she cried out, “ Come in, come in, Miss Copley. 
What a pattern of punctuality you are !” 

And so enter Barbara in her shabby frock and hat — she had left 
the still shabbier cloak in the hall — and salutes her employer, and 
acknowledges Mr. Hofmann’s greeting with her usual gentle grace. 

We know that, but a short time before, Miss Copley had been 
associated in Lady Lambton’s mind with some irritating ideas ; 
but these were dissipated the moment she saw her. The thought 
of the contrast between her sisters and Barbara had been disa- 
greeable ; but the sight of the contrast between Barbara and her- 
self was soothing. 

Lady Lambton at first declared that she must send Mr. Hof- 
mann away, as she was far too nervous to practise in his presence. 
But after a little coquettb he consented to let him remain and 
hear her. Her singing was ’dot very good, but Fritz was honestly 
ignorant of music, and had but little ear ; and then Amy had the 
rare advantage of looking well while she sang. The songs were 
interspersed with lively disci dons on the musical drama, about 
which her ladyship said sev(-.-al good things with an air of spon- 
taneous enthusiasm, for she i ad an excellent memory. As for 






THAT WILD WHEEL. 


129 


Barbara, she played the accompaniments, and held her tongue; 
and when the hour was at an end she went away promptly, think- 
ing, with a smile, that the course of Mr. Hofmann’s wooing seemed 
to be running very smoothly. 

She had not walked many yards along the Brompton Road be- 
fore a quick footstep coming up behind her slackened ; and Mr. 
Hofmann’s voice said, a little breathlessly, “Oh, excuse me, Miss 
Copley, but I have a message for you from the Ketterings. I re- 
ceived a letter from my cousin Ida this morning. Perhaps part 
of it may interest you, for they have seen your uncle.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

After William Hughes had finished certain views taken from 
the lower heights above Vevey, he purposed completing his task 
by filling some smaller panels with delicate studies of autumn 
foliage, showing blue or gray glimpses of water between the 
tracery of leaves and twigs ; and, since these could be painted on 
the borders of the lake, he descended from the farm-house on the 
hill, and took up his quarters at Madame Martin’s. 

Aunt Judith and Barbara had urged him, as the weather grew 
colder and the days shorter, to leave the rough farm-house and 
seek more comfortable accommodation ; and he thought he might 
fairly allow himself this indulgence, since it was no longer neces- 
sary to consider the expenditure of every farthing so anxiously as 
would have been the case had Claude given up his situation and 
been thrown immediately on his hands. And then Madame Mar- 
tin eagerly proved to him that she could be at no loss in taking 
him as a boarder on reduced terms. “ ’Tis not as if you took up 
the room of a ten-franc customer, Mr. Hughes,” said the good 
woman. “You will content yourself of the small attic behind 
Monsieur Claude’s ; and, with as many pensionnaires as I have in 
the house now, what you pay will give a profit, sir. You may 
see the books.” 

So it was settled that Mr. Hughes should become an inmate of 
the Pension Monplaisir, 

9 


130 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


The arrangement was immensely popular among Madame Mar- 
tin’s boarders. As Miss Jenks observed, exultantly, they were 
quite looking up at Monplaisir; for the father of the Russian 
family had arrived from Odessa, and thus they had actually two 
gentlemen dining regularly at their table — not to mention Mr. 
Copley, who sometimes appeared there also. To be sure, Miss 
Cnrdan repudiated any undignified elation on this score, and ob- 
served that it was rather for the gentlemen to feel themselves 
happily privileged under the circumstances. But this was said 
chiefly to check the exuberance of Miss Jenks; for Miss Curdan 
and her sister Susan, as well as old Mrs. Ford and the rest, did 
honestly admit among themselves that it was a very agreeable 
change to have some masculine society. “Only,” said Miss Cur- 
dan, dropping her voice a little, “ I do not consider it proper to 
make such a fuss about them to their faces as Miss Jenks does.” 

Perhaps Claude Copley was the only person in the house who 
felt irked by Mr. Hughes’s arrival. Not that he was without 

regard for his uncle, but he shrank from living under his obser- 

vation. As for Mrs. Armour, it was indifferent to her : she had 
begun a flirtation with the Russian, who carried it on in an oddly 
nonchalant manner, something like that of an actor going through 
his part at rehearsal ; so that she was not wholly dependent for 
amusement on Claude. 

Indeed, her attention was diverted from the young man in an- 
other way before Mr. Hughes had been a week in the Pension. 
She began to talk boastfully about. a family who were staying at 

the Hotel of the Trois Couronnes in Vevey. They had been 

friends of Captain Armour — old family friends ; they were people 
of wealth and influence ; they were highly cultivated ; they had 
been beyond measure delighted to discover, by the accidental 
recognition of her name at the circulating library, that Mrs. Ar- 
mour was so near them ; and so on, and so on. 

Mrs. Armour dropped hints about the riches and importance 
of her friends with a lofty carelessness of manner. But Miss 
Jenks made it her business to fill in Mrs. Armour’s bold outline 
with more minute detail. By her means many particulars respect- 
ing Mrs. Armour’s grand acquaintance were diffused through the 
Pension, without Mrs. Armour herself condescending to impart 
them directly. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


131 


This did not arise from any special friendship between the two 
ladies. Miss Jenks’s curiosity about her fellow-creatures was “as 
broad and general as the casing air.” She found out all she 
could and retailed it with great zest and enjoyment. On the other 
hand, it made no difference to her that Mrs. Armour was unpop- 
ular. She was the only person quite neutral with respect to the 
smouldering feud between Mrs. Armour and Claude Copley on 
the one part and all the rest of the boarders on the other. Miss 
Jenks took no sides. She borrowed impartially from everybody. 

Most persons might have considered it a hopeless enterprise to 
attempt borrowing from Mrs. Armour, who was neither well off 
nor generous. But it should be understood that Miss Jenks lev- 
ied her contributions chiefly in kind, and that nothing came amiss 
to her. The maid-servants in the Pension declared that articles 
belonging to every lady in the house had been found in Miss 
Jenks’s bedroom. In the evening, she would give a festal air to 
her attire by adding something ornamental to her brown stuff 
gown. One of Mrs. Ford’s lace collars frequently figured on it; 
Miss Susan Curdan would contribute a waist-buckle ; her sister, a 
brooch ; Mrs. Armour a knot of bright-colored ribbon, slightly 
soiled, perhaps, but still effective. Even Madame Martin had 
been taxed to the extent of a pair of black lace mittens. While, 
on wet days, the variety of umbrellas that Miss Jenks was observed 
to carry abroad with her was truly extraordinary. They ranged 
from Mrs. Ford’s neat brown silk, with her monogram engraved 
on a silver plate in the handle, to the huge, flapping, red cotton 
awning of the Swiss cook. And she had once sallied forth to 
walk into Vevey in Miss Susan Curdan’s waterproof cloak, which 
reached an inch or two below her knees — Miss Susan being short, 
and plump of figure. 

She was extremely anxious to make the personal acquaintance 
of Mrs. Armour’s rich friends — a desire which Mrs. Armour was 
firmly resolved not to gratify. But Fortune, who is said to favor 
the bold, favored Miss Jenks in this matter, and in the following 
way : Miss Jenks passed many of her unoccupied hours in the 
salle-a-manger , because its windows commanded a view of the 
road ; and, being there alone one afternoon, she saw a carriage 
stop at the garden gate, and a servant got down from the box 
with some visiting-cards in his hand. 


132 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


With the vigorous promptitude that distinguished her, Miss 
Jenks at once rushed into the corridor, seized a hat from the row 
of pegs there (it happened to belong to the eldest child of the 
Russian family — a little girl of fourteen), threw a scarf of Mrs. 
Ford’s round her shoulders, and hastened into the garden, where 
(such had been her activity) she interrupted the servant before he 
reached the door of the house. 

“ Quoi demandez-vous ?” she inquired, majestically. And then, 
taking the cards from the man’s hand, she read the names on 
them aloud : “ ‘ Mrs. Philip Kettering, the Misses Kettering, Miss 
Stringer.’ For Mrs. Armour, no doubt. I will go and speak 
with the ladies.” 

It should be explained that Miss Jcnks always began a conver- 
sation with foreigners in French — or what she supposed to be 
French — by way of a graceful concession to Continental habits. 
But to the casual stranger this was rather a trap, and productive 
of embarrassment; for, after two or three sentences, Miss Jenks 
continued her share of the dialogue in colloquial and provincial 
English, conceiving, apparently, that the natives, having had a 
good start given them in their own tongue, ought to find no dif- 
ficulty in going on in hers. 

It so chanced that the only occupant of the carriage was Ida 
Kettering. She had been deputed to leave cards on Mrs. Armour 
for the rest of the family, who were making an excursion, consid- 
ered somewhat too fatiguing for her. And Ida now beheld with 
amazement the figure advancing towards the carriage. With her 
tall and massive form, surmounted by a little round straw hat, 
trimmed with white ribbon, and wearing a gayly striped Roman 
scarf over her very dingy brown dress, Miss Jenks presented, it 
must be owned, a sufficiently eccentric appearance. But that 
troubled her not a jot. She stalked up to the carriage, and said, 
laying a solemn emphasis on nearly every other word : 

“ I am not quite sure, but I believe Mrs. Armour is at home. 
Won’t you walk in? Miss Kettering, I presume?” 

Ida characteristically replied by a counter-question : 

“ Are you the mistress of this Pension ?” 

“ No. Miss Jenks.” 

And then they stared at each other gravely for a second or two, 
after which Miss Jenks repeated her invitation to walk in. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


133 


Now, as Ida had, perhaps, as much native curiosity as Miss 
Jenks — although restrained by sundry considerations of good man- 
ners, which would have been as the filmiest gossamer to the latter 
lady, supposing they had ever occurred to her — she wished to 
see the inside of an establishment which contained such singular 
inhabitants as the specimen before her. Her mother had merely 
charged her to leave the cards in the course of her afternoon 
drive. But there could be no objection to her paying a personal 
visit to Mrs. Armour if she chose to do so. Accordingly, Ida 
alighted from the carriage, accompanied Miss Jenks to the house, 
and was by her ushered into the salon, which was empty, save for 
the presence of the Russian lady and her German governess, who 
were playing bezique at a little table. 

Miss Jenks bustled out of the room, saying she would send to 
see where Mrs. Armour was; and presently bustled in again, an- 
nouncing that the servant had gone to seek her, and “ would not 
be long,” which, considering that Miss Jenks knew Mrs. Armour 
to be on the way up the lake to Chillon, was a somewhat bold 
assertion. But she had accomplished her object of securing some 
conversation with Miss Kettering. 

The upshot was that when, after a quarter of an hour, Ida rose 
to go away, Miss Jenks had gleaned a variety of facts which she 
had the happiness of imparting to select audiences during the day. 
The Ketterings, it appeared, had never seen Mrs. Armour before 
this meeting in Vevey. Mr. Kettering had known Captain Ar- 
mour many years ago, and had, as a boy, been intimate with his 
family. “But it’s pretty clear that the intimacy doesn’t extend 
to the 'present time. They are on civil terms with Mrs. Armour, 
but nothing more,” said Miss Jenks. And then, as soon as Mrs. 
Armour came home, she had rushed to tell her of the visit, and 
had thrust the cards into her hand triumphantly, wholly una- 
bashed by Mrs. Armour’s angry and indignant reception of these 
attentions. 

But she reserved her grand effect until the whole of the com- 
pany was assembled in the salon after dinner ; when she thus be- 
gan in a loud voice that attracted general attention : 

“ Mr. Hughes, I have a message for you.” 

William Hughes, who was good-naturedly shuffling the cards 
for Mrs. Ford’s evening game of patience, looked up and said, 


134 


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“ Indeed !” very placidly. But the female part of the audience, 
knowing Miss Jenks’s manner, perceived that something inter- 
esting was coming, and listened with eagerness. 

“ Yes,” proceeded Miss Jenks, “ I have .” Then she cleared her 
throat impressively, and added, “ At least, it is not exactly a mes- 
sage.” 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Mr. Hughes, smiling and lifting his eye- 
brows. 

“ No, it is not , at the same time it is something which you will 
be pleased to hear. I was talking this afternoon to the youngest 
Miss Kettering. She and her mamma and her sister, and a lady 
who I am not sure of her exact relationship, but a relation she is, 
are all staying at the Hotel Trois Couronnes in Vevey, in a very 
handsome suite on the first floor, looking towards the lake. And 
she came here in a carriage and pair, with their own man-servant 
on the box.” 

Miss Jenks, here pausing for a few seconds to look round on 
the company, William Hughes said, with great suavity, that he 
hoped the youngest Miss Kettering had enjoyed herself. 

“ I found her very affable,” continued Miss Jenks, gravely, 
“and quite the lady; and, on my happening to mention that we 
had Mr. William Hughes, the painter, that the Grand Duke 
Casimir bought his picture of, staying in the house — for I think 
it right to say a good word for Madame Martin when I can, and 
to let people know that she has very select boarders — Miss Ket- 
tering said oh, she knew your name very well, and she should 
like to see you — very much like to see you was her word.” 

Miss Jenks brought this out with au air of immense compla- 
cency. She sincerely supposed that this mention of him would 
elate William Hughes, and exalt him in the estimation of the 
boarders at Monplaisir ; and she had latterly assumed a tone of in- 
timacy — almost of proprietorship — in speaking of Mr. Hughes, 
whereof the full meaning had not as yet burst on the lady board- 
ers, although some lurid flashes of suspicion had once or twice 
darted across the mind of the younger Miss Curdan. 

“ Well? Is that all?” asked Mrs. Ford at length, when it was 
plain that Miss Jenks had finished her speech. 

“ All! Well, and very gratifying, too, if it is all, Mrs. Ford. 
But the fact is, I did offer to tell Mr. Hughes whatever Miss Ket- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


135 




tering wanted to say to him; but she said ‘No; thank you’ — 
that is, me — now that she knew where Mr. Hughes was staying, 
she would write.” 

These last words were accompanied by a triumphant glance at 
Mrs. Armour, who had affected to pay no attention to what was 
being said ; but who certainly had heard every word. Miss Jenks 
enjoyed showing that there were other persons at Monplaisir 
honored by the attention of the rich family, and thus destroying 
Mrs. Armour’s monopoly. Miss Jenks was in general not resent- 
ful of petty slights, and, in elbowing her way through the world, 
endured a good many hard pushes with stoicism. But Mrs. 
Armour had administered one or two vicious diors in the ribs so 

CJ 

accurately aimed that they had made even Miss Jenks wince. 

It was now Mrs. Armour’s turn to wince. She had allowed 
herself to romance a great deal about her intimacy with the Ket- 
terings, feeling confident no one at the Pension would have an 
opportunity of rectifying her statements; and now here was Ida 
Kettering purposing to write to William Hughes! What could 
she have to say to him ? 

The answer was very simple : she wanted him to look at some 
water-color sketches that she had been making, and to give her 
some instruction as to finishing them. Ida drew fairly well, and 
was ambitious. As soon as she heard of Mr. Hughes’s presence 
in Vevey, she begged her mother to let her have lessons from him. 
There were few requests of either of her daughters that Mrs. 
Kettering would have refused ; and to Ida, in her character of 
invalid, her indulgence was boundless. But she feared that Mr. 
Hughes’s time might be fully occupied. 

“ How do you know that he will consent to give you lessons at 
all?” asked Miss Stringer. 

“Miss Copley told me he taught sometimes,” answered Ida. 

“Oh, I dare say he will, if lie’s well paid,” said Mrs. Kettering, 
calmly. “Why shouldn’t he? At any rate, we can but try. I 
will write to him.” 

Accordingly, a politely worded note was despatched to Mr. 
Hughes; and the result was that he engaged himself to give 
lessons to Miss Ida Kettering three times a week during the re- 
mainder of his stay in Vevey. He happened to be there, making 
studies in a sunny vineyard, well sheltered from the wind, and 


136 


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suggested that on fine days the young lady should have her easel 
carried thither, and should work beside him. This proposal 
pleased every one; Ida was delighted, because, as she said, it 
would be working like a real artist, and Mrs. Kettering was 
pleased, since Ida would thus be following the doctor’s prescrip- 
tion of sunshine and fresh air, without fatigue. 

“ He is rather odd-looking, but I like his manner,” said Mrs. 
Kettering, after their first interview. 

“ Well, mamma, he isn’t the only odd-looking person in that 
Pension,” said Ida, with a vivid recollection of Miss Jenks. “ I 
fancy they must be a regular collection of curiosities.” 

“ I would lay a wager that Mr. Hughes is by far the greatest 
rarity among them all,” pronounced Miss Stringer, in her sharp, 
decisive tones. 

“ Why, Sally ?” 

“ Because he’s a thoroughly sensible man,” answered that lady, 
dryly. 

In this fashion Miss Sally Stringer announced her approval of 
Mr. William Hughes. And the approval increased with better 
acquaintance. When Ida took her lessons out-of-doors, Miss 
Stringer usually accompanied her ; and enjoyed chatting with Mr. 
Hughes, and drawing out his quaint humor. 

One day she abruptly inquired what he thought of “ that” Mrs. 
Armour, who was boarding in the same house with him. Mr. 
Hughes answered, discreetly, that he had not the honor of much 
acquaintance with the lady. 

“Ah !” said Sally, tightening her mouth and nodding her head, 
“perhaps you’re right; but / shouldn’t have betrayed you if you 
had told me your real opinion. However, you can’t feel sure of 
that; how should you? Well, I will be more candid — she’s a 
cat; likewise a puss. They’re not the same thing by any means ; 
but she’s both.” 

Mrs. Armour, however, had sheathed her claws and presented 
a velvet paw to Mr. Hughes from the moment she discovered that 
he had frequent opportunities of seeing the Ketterings. She 
thought it worth while to conciliate him. 

But she found it difficult to draw him into conversation. 
And being tolerably quick-sighted where her vanity was con- 
cerned, she was conscious that her amiable advances were 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


137 


received by Mr. Hughes with a cool reluctance which was mor- 
tifying. 

One evening, however, she lighted on a subject which inter- 
ested him ; for in the course of one of her frequent stories about 
her life in India — stories which all had one heroine (Juliet Ar- 
mour) and an indefinite number of heroes, comprising all the men, 
young or old, military or civilians, who had ever seen her, and who 
consequently pined in hopeless adoration — she chanced to men- 
tion the name of Gilbert Hazel. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

‘‘A young fellow called Gilbert Hazel,” were the words which 
struck on William Hughes’s ear, and made him look up quickly 
from the book in his hand. 

Mrs. Armour was lounging in an easy-chair, talking to Claude 
Copley, who sat near her. At the movement Hughes had made 
she glanced across the room at him, and saw that he was listen- 
ing. 

“Gilbert Hazel !” exclaimed Claude. “ AVasn’t that the name 
of the man who was your fellow-lodger in a farm-house in Kent, 
one summer, Uncle William ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Hughes, laying down his book and drawing 
nearer. 

“Oh, a mere chance acquaintance?” asked Mrs. Armour. 

“ A mere chance acquaintance,” assented Hughes. “ Do you 
know him ?” 

“Oh dear, yes! We knew him when he first joined his regi- 
ment — quite a youngster. Captain Armour was very kind to 
him, treated him like a son. My husband was many, many 
years my senior, you know. But there was always something 
rather odd and inscrutable in Hazel’s manner. There was an 
ugly story, I fancy, about his father having done something 
dreadful and ruined the family. But I make a point of paying 
no attention to gossip, and gossip in India above all. However, 
it is certain that the young man was very reserved, and seemed 


138 


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depressed. Some people persisted in attributing that to his 
passion malheureuse for — for a lady of my acquaintance.” 

Claude murmured something in a low tone, whereupon Mrs. 
Armour laughed affectedly and shook her head. 

“No, no; that was all nonsense,” said she. “Or, at any rate 
— well, it is all so long ago that it cannot matter. I believe the 
truth is that he had some high-flown, romantic, knight-errant sort 
of devotion to me; and, after all, I don’t know why I shouldn’t 
say so.” 

“ There is evidently nothing to prevent your saying so,” re- 
marked William Hughes, gravely. 

“ I have not heard or thought of Gilbert Hazel since I left In- 
dia. And it is odd that the first news I got of him should come 
just when I happen to be in company with some one who knows 
him. I often say, ‘ How small the world is !’ And it really is, 
you know,” added Mrs. Armour, persuasively, as though she ex- 
pected her hearers would not very readily accept so original a 
view. 

“ Do I understand that you have recent news of Mr. Hazel ?” 
asked Hughes. 

“Only yesterday I had a letter from a friend of mine in Cal- 
cutta, mentioning that Gilbert Hazel had left the army and gone 
into trade. My friend — who is a woman very highly connected — 
writes quite a Jeremiah about the levelling spirit of the age, and 
the way in which gentlemen nowadays will barter their birth- 
right for lucre, and so on. But, really, I don’t know that poor 
Hazel had much to barter.” 

“ May I ask whether your correspondent gives any details as to 
what Hazel is doing, or where he is ?” 

“Oh, he must have sailed from India five or six months ago; 
and she merely says that she hears he is going into some house of 
business in England. To me the idea of his attempting anything 
commercial is too funny. He was looked upon among us as the 
most unpractical being, with the most absurd, overstrained notions 
of— of— ” 

“ Honor, perhaps ?” suggested Hughes, dryly. 

“ Oh, of everything ! He will hardly be a success as a trades- 
man.” 

“ You think soldiering more in his w 7 ay ?” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


139 


“Well, yes, lie has as much pluck as other men, I suppose; 
and Captain Armour used to consider him a steady young officer. 
But, my dear Mr. Hughes, since you have met him yourself, I 
am sure that you, with your sagacity and practical knowledge of 
the world, must have observed that there is no dash about poor 
Hazel. He wants brilliancy, don’t you know ?” 

“ In short, the only point that can positively be asserted in his 
favor is that, in one respect, at all events, he showed excellent 
taste,” said William, bowing to Mrs. Armour. Then he moved 
away, and took up his book again. But, although he held it in 
his hand, he did not read, but fell into a fit of musing. 

This behavior was not very encouraging as to any hopes Mrs. 
Armour might have entertained of charming Mr. Hughes into be- 
coming her friend and partisan. But, in truth, since she was by 
this time pretty well convinced that he was not likely to make 
mischief, or to report to the Ketterings any of the flourishes she 
had indulged in about them, she cared very little whether Mr. 
Hughes were surly or not. Some little grudge against him re- 
mained indeed at the bottom of her mind. But if he would but 
hold his tongue, she could afford to defy his opinion. 

In spite of her hint, Claude Copley had not informed his uncle 
that Mrs. Armour was the daughter of Dr. Kirby. He had re- 
frained from doing so, partly because the name of Dr. Kirby sug- 
gested no sort of distinction, social or other, to Claude’s mind ; 
and partly because at the time his uncle was prejudiced against 
Mrs. Armour by Madame Martin’s report. And later, the matter 
passed from his mind altogether. 

William Hughes thus remained in ignorance of the lady’s 
parentage. 

Had he known it, he would have known also that she was a 
young child when the tragedy of his life began. He would have 
recalled the frequent mention made of her in Winifred’s bright 
letters; he had them still, a bundle of letters written on thin for- 
eign paper, and addressed to him at Rome, tied round with a 
black ribbon, and yellow like faded leaves, in his shabby old desk ; 
and he would have remembered the name of little Juliet, so much 
younger than her sisters, and the spoiled plaything of the family. 

As for Mrs. Armour, she naturally did not think of connecting 
the painter, William Hughes, with her former governess, whose 


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story she knew but vaguely. It was not one to be discussed in 
the presence of a child. She had an indistinct remembrance 
that there had been a violent quarrel between her father and her 
uncle Christopher; and of her mother’s tears and anger. But 
the very name of Winifred Hughes had been blotted from her 
memory years ago. 

She would have been indifferent, in any case, to Winifred’s 
fate. Nor had she ever been interested to inquire into the fate 
of her Uncle Christopher since she had lost sight of him. The 
rumor of his wealth had not yet reached her ears ; and in truth 
she knew not if he were alive or dead. Since her widowhood she 
had wandered from one second-rate Continental boarding-house 
to another. Her only surviving sister, an old maid subsisting in 
London on very scanty means, had once written to propose that 
she and Juliet should join their incomes and live together. But 
Juliet had refused. She was discontented enough with her pres- 
ent way of life, but she shrank still more from the dulness of a 
poor household in England, and the companionship of a pious 
sister who would bore her about religion. 

But the accidental meeting with Mrs. Kettering had consider- 
ably changed her views. She began to dream of returning to 
London, and getting access to agreeable society under the au- 
spices of these rich people. If she could sufficiently ingratiate 
herself with the Ketterings, a future might lie before her which 
seemed brilliant by comparison with the sordid and dreary exist- 
ence of the last few years. Mrs. Kettering was very kind, in her 
placid fashion ; and the girls seemed good-natured. But the 
doubtful point was Miss Stringer. Mrs. Armour did not under- 
stand Sally ; and she was haunted by a suspicion that Sally did 
understand her. She was not even certain that Sally was hostile. 
Only — Sally was certainly odd ! At all events, Mrs. Armour re- 
solved to neglect no occasion for cultivating the Ketterings’ ac- 
quaintance. And yet, when an unexpected opportunity of 
meeting them shortly arose, it gave her by no means unmixcd 
satisfaction. 

William Hughes had, as his manner was, warmly recognized 
the prosperous circumstances attending his visit to Switzerland. 
The drawing lessons to Ida Kettering had been a welcome wind- 
fall, putting a sum of money into his pocket above his calcula- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


141 


tions ; and it never occurred to him to complain that it was be- 
low his deserts. Not that Hughes undervalued his artistic pow- 
ers — it may be doubted whether any true artist pver does — 
but he well knew that their money payment depended on various 
circumstances which have little to do with merit. And the 
knowledge did not embitter him. 

His was a temperament which brightly reflected even the 
faintest gleam of sunshine. He was a wonderful conductor of 
cheerfulness. And his first impulse when any good thing befell 
him was to communicate some share of it to his neighbors. 

The time of his departure from Vevey was drawing near; and 
the Ketterings were thinking of moving on to Montreux. Under 
these circumstances, William cast about in his mind to see how 
he could wind up his stay at the Pension Monplaisir by some 
festive entertainment which should include all his friends there. 

He broached the subject confidentially to Miss Stringer, who 
entered into the idea with great spirit. 

“Do you think,” began William, “that something in the 
nature of a picnic luncheon at the farm-house where I lodged 
would do ? We could get hot water to make tea, and so forth, 
from the farmer’s wife. The view from there, in its late autumn 
coloring, is glorious. And although the way up is a little 
steep — ” 

“ Certainly not. Too late in the year ; and altogether too 
fatiguing — that is to say, if you want Ida to be of the party.” 

“I certainly should like very much to invite my pupil, and her 
sister, if you think Mrs. Kettering would permit — ” 

Miss Stringer nodded emphatically. 

“And may I venture to hope that you also — ?” 

“ Of course. / mean to make one, in any case.” 

“ I suppose an excursion on the lake to — ” 

“ Won’t do at all !” 

“But,” remonstrated William, with a twinkle of enjoyment in 
his eyes — for Sally amused him mightily — “ might it not possibly 
make some difference in your opinion if you allowed me to finish 
what I was going to say ?” 

“ Couldn’t make the slightest difference.” 

“ Oh !” 

“ Not the slightest. Going anywhere by water at this season 


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would be a shuddery business. Let us be thankful we have a roof 
over our heads, and a railway within reach when locomotion is 
indispensable.” 

“ Then I am afraid I really don’t see — ” 

“ Give an evening party,” interrupted Miss Stringer, deci- 
sively. 

“ An evening party !” 

“To be sure. It need not be expensive.” Then she added, 
quickly, “ I hope you will excuse me for saying that. But the 
fact is, that, being myself obliged to consider ways and means on 
all occasions, I have got into the habit of counting the cost of 
everything.” 

William’s eyes beamed as he turned them on Miss Stringer; 
for he understood this trait of delicacy very well. “ Oh, as for 
me,” he answered, smiling, “I mean to be magnificent! I shall 
not count the panes too closely.” 

“ Bravo,” cried Miss Stringer, clapping her hands. “ Then I 
vote for an evening party at the Pension Monplaisir. Cakes, cof- 
fee, and conversation. I’m sure you can do lots of things to 
amuse them. But if you want to make ’em really happy, let 
them show off ! Let them sing, play, recite, or whatever it may 
be : you could do nothing half so popular.” 

“ Do you think so ?” 

“ Positively.” 

William was silent for a few moments. Then a gleam of irre- 
pressible amusement broke over his face. “ Well,” said he, “ I 
believe they would like that. But I’m bound to warn you that 
I’m afraid you wouldn’t. You see, as regards the enjoyment of 
these social experiments, it makes all the difference whether one 
is the operator or the subject !” 

“ Oh, never fear ! I know I shall be amused. Why, from 
what I hear, Miss Jenks alone must be a host in herself.” 

“ Miss Jenks’ s powers of entertainment I hold to be unrivalled,” 
answered William, with great earnestness and warmth. “ But not 
every one can appreciate them.” 

“ I fancy I shall,” said Sally, smiling grimly. 

“ I think it likely that you may. And let me tell you, Miss 
Stringer, that, in my opinion, a relish for Miss Jenks’s society 
denotes a cultivated palate — like the taste for caviare or dry chain- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


143 


pagne. There are large classes of her fellow-creatures on whom 
Miss Jenks would be entirely thrown away.” 

The first thing to be done was to secure Madame Martin’s 
good-will and co-operation. And William Hughes lost no time 
in speaking to her on the subject. The good woman was en- 
chanted. “ Why, ’tis most aimable on your part, sir,” she said. 
“ And I am sure every one will be very sensible of it. All the 
society will be charmed. ’Twill make us quite lively. And we 
are not — entre nous, Mr. Hughes — very lively, as a rule.” 

It must be owned that the strict gentility of most of the board- 
ers, combined with their no less strict economy, did not promote 
liveliness. Gentility, with its pockets full of cash, or Economy, 
in shirt-sleeves and slippers down at heel, may enjoy themselves 
after their several fashions, but they seldom live happily together. 

The news that Mr. Hughes intended to give an evening party 
before leaving Yevey electrified the Pension Monplaisir. A thrill 
of expectation pervaded the whole establishment. And when Mr. 
Hughes, in concert with Madame Martin, fixed the date and gave 
his invitations — which he did by word of mouth — the general ex- 
citement grew intense. 

Keen as he was to note the oddities and absurdities of his fel- 
low-boarders, William honestly felt kindly towards them, and 
wished that they should enjoy themselves. “They have all been 
very good to me,” he thought, with his accustomed simplicity of 
mind. And he thought, too, that there was something pathetic 
in the eagerness of some of them about so poor an entertainment 
as he was able to offer them ; for it seemed to give the measure 
of the dulness and monotony of their lives. 

Mrs. Armour alone affected a lofty indifference, and observed 
privately to Claude that it was too killing to see the fuss those 
ridiculous old women made about so commonplace a matter. 
But when she learned that some of the Kettering family were ex- 
pected to be present, her interest was quickened considerably. 

The favorable planet which at this time ruled the fortunes of 
the Pension Monplaisir had not yet exhausted its benign influ- 
ences, for the contingent of three males which that establishment 
could boast of was unexpectedly reinforced by the arrival of two 
strangers on the very day before the famous party. 

Madame Martin came to Mr. Hughes with a letter in her hand, 


144 


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and began to thank him for recommending; her house ; and when 
William disclaimed this merit, from lack, not of good-will, but of 
opportunity, she answered, “Ah, well, sir, but ’tis through your 
name that these messieurs have applied. You see you have 
brought me good chance, Mr. Hughes. It is always good to get 
an opening into a new connection.” 

The purport of the letter was to ask if Madame Martin could 
receive two gentlemen for a few days, and the signature, written 
in a clear, commercial hand, but surrounded by an intricate 
flourish, was “ N. Coney.” 

Mr. Percival Snagge having completed the business that brought 
him to England, was about returning to his home near Florence 
for the winter ; and he had urged his friend to fulfil an old prom- 
ise by accompanying him. But this Mr. Coney had declined. One 
evening, however, when the proposal was being talked of at Morti- 
mer Hopkins’s lodgings, the elder Hopkins had jocularly suggest- 
ed that they should take a run to Yevey, and look up Mr. Hughes, 
and Coney had at once seized on the suggestion seriously. 

Ever since the evening when he had met Barbara at Mrs. Green’s, 
and had learned that Mr. Hughes’s niece was named Copley, lie 
had displayed a strange inquisitiveness about the painter’s family 
history and connections; and no sooner did lie hear from Hop- 
kins that Mr. Hughes was still at Yevey, and that a young neph- 
ew of his was there also, than he seemed bent on making Vevey 
the goal of his Continental trip. Mr. Snagge objected and pro- 
tested ; he would rather go to Paris, and proceed thence to Italy ; 
it was too late for Switzerland ; and so forth. But Coney was 
firm. 

“ Pve done Paris over and over,” said he. “ I want a peep at 
something new ; and Lake Leman — ‘ with its crystal face, the 
mirror where the stars and mountains view,’ you know — will be 
the verv ticket !” 

*. i 

“ If you get as far as Switzerland, Nat, you might as well come 
on through the Mont Cenis to Italy,” urged Mr. Snagge. “ You 
can afford it well enough.” (For Mr. Coney had been a prudent 
and a saving man, and was reputed by his intimates to have made 
some snug little investments.) 

“Can’t be done this year, Percival. ‘Thus far into the bowels 
of the land will I march on without impediment ’--that is to say, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


145 


I don’t mind a second-class return to Geneva, and then eettino- a 
squint up the lake. I told you I’d take a short run with you on 
your way South. 4 If I do vow a friendship, I’ll perform it to the 
last article.’ But, for the present, I can’t olfer any article beyond 
Vevey.” 

And so Mr. Coney, having the stronger will, prevailed, and de- 
spatched his letter to Madame Martin. 

“ Well, Mr. Hughes,” said that good woman, with a beaming 
face, “ ’tis fine times at Monplaisir, for sure! Your soiree and 
two new gentlemen ! Our ladies will be in spirits. And as for 
Miss Jenks” — lowering her voice and indulging in a silent chuckle 
— “ I’m almost afraid to tell Miss Jenks, sir. There’ll be no hold- 
ing her !” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Perhaps there could be no more striking exemplification of 
the preponderance of the feminine element in Madame Martin’s 
establishment than the circumstance that there was no smoking- 
room in it. When any stray man did chance to ask for the fu- 
moir , if the weather were too bad to turn him into the garden, he 
was ushered into the bureau — a small den, with two glazed sides 
to it, where Claude Copley balanced the books of the Pension, 
and dispensed information as to trains and boats to inquiring 
boarders. 

But Madame Martin was a woman of resources ; and in view 
of the promised accession of gentlemen to her inmates, she or- 
ganized an impromptu smoking-room in a disused greenhouse, 
which was a sort of excrescence in the drawing-room, and com- 
municated with it by a glass door. Though somewhat rough, it 
answered its purpose sufficiently well, being warm, dry, and easily 
ventilated. On the side opposite to the drawing-room there was 
a second door, of which the upper panels were glazed, leading 
into the shrubbery, and to the back premises. Over this outer 
door Madame Martin hung up an old railway rug, which kept 
out the draughts as effectually as a Genoa velvet portiere. A few 
cane-bottomed arm-chairs, a centre-table covered with shiny cloth 
10 


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simulating leather, and a square of drugget on the floor com- 
pleted the furniture and decorations. 

The effect of the whole was considered to be highly satisfac- 
tory by the lady boarders, who handsomely declared that they did 
not believe any odor of smoke would penetrate to the drawing- 
room ; and that if it did, they rather liked it. The only person 
who demurred to the proximity of the smokers was a fat, taciturn 
old lady, chiefly remarkable for her enormous appetite; and she 
based her opposition on the difficulty you had in getting the smell 
out o’ your hair. But as she was known to be completely bald, 
and always wore a species of brown-silk caul, with a great mob- 
cap tied on over it, her objection was held to be frivolous, and 
was overruled. 

But although the ladies were delighted with Madame Martin’s 
arrangements, the persons for whom those arrangements were 
made displayed no extravagant satisfaction with them. It may, 
indeed, be observed that the cheerful quality of mind, familiarly 
described as “ making the best of a bad bargain, is chiefly exer- 
cised on other people’s bad bargains. 

Mr. Percival Snagge, when he was introduced into the fumoir 
on the first evening of his arrival, appeared profoundly discon- 
tented. 

“I can’t make you out, Nathaniel,” he said, glancing ruefully, 
first at the rough wood- work and patched glass of the greenhouse, 
with its drapery of worn railway rug, and then at the unmoved 
countenance of his friend. 

“ Can’t you, Percival ?” 

“No, I can’t. You give up Paris, you rush through Geneva, 
to come into this confounded old rat-trap full of nothing but old 
cats !” said Mr. Snagge, with some confusion of images but un- 
mistakable distinctness of meaning. 

“Oh, come, the dinner wasn’t half bad. The old girl, Madame 
Martin, is a jolly old soul ; our rooms are clean and comfortable ; 
and the terms are very low. And — look here !” Mr. Coney pulled 
from his pocket a capacious travelling-flask. “ This Cognac fine 
champagne is Al. A friend of mine who travels in wines got 
me a lot — a bargain. And I never take a journey without a 
flaskful. It’s a regular lick-cure, sir,” said Mr. Coney, with em- 
phatic approbation. “ I intimated to the bun, as they call ’em on 


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147 


this side, that hot water and sugar would be required. And here 
she conies with ’em. That’s right, put ’em down there. Mercy , 
mah belle! which is a figure of speech, for you’re about as ugly 
as they make ’em, even in these parts ; and that’s saying a good 
deal.” 

These latter remarks Mr. Coney uttered sotto voce, as the stout 
Swiss serving-maid disappeared behind the railway-rug and went 
out. He then, with great care and dexterity, mixed two tumblers 
of hot brandy-and-water, and, handing one to his friend, bade him, 
in a solemn tone, to quaff and spare not. 

Having quaffed, Mr. Snagge’s mood grew blander; and as, un- 
der the soothing influence of a good cigar in addition to that of 
the Cognac, Mr. Coney also felt his heart expand with friendly 
sentiments, they soon slid into a confidential and familiar chat. 

“ That fellow Hughes has been working here for more than 
three weeks, I understand,” said Snagge. “ Well now, I’ll tell 
you what it is : I hold that man to be a traitor.” 

“ Eh ?” ejaculated Mr. Coney, looking up sharply. 

“Oh, understand me, Nat; I’m not accusing him of dishonesty 
in the common parlance. But to Art — to the worship and cult of 
the Ideal — he is a traitor and a renegade.” 

“Oh! — he is commonplace,” admitted Mr. Coney, with a can- 
did air, at the same time passing his hand thoughtfully over his 
big bald skull. 

“What,” pursued Mr. Snagge, snorting ironically, and tossing 
back his hair, “ what, sir, is the object and scope, as I may say, 
of his being in Switzerland at this moment? Is it to steep his 
soul in Nature? I think not” 

Mr. Coney thought not, too ; and nodded to that effect across 
his tumbler. 

“ Is it even the single-minded desire of interpreting Nature 
by means of the ’igher inspirations of artistic insight? I think 
not.” 

Again Mr. Coney nodded, and observed, in an explanatory tone, 
“ It’s a job Hopkins got for him.” 

“Ay! It is a job Hopkins got for him; and it would be a 
precious long time before Hopkins offered such a job to me.” 

Mr. Coney was conscious of such entire concurrence with this 
opinion that he felt it would not be civil to express it, and mur- 


148 


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mured, “Oh, I don’t know about that, Percy. I dare say he 
would if he had the opportunity.” 

“ No, sir; Hopkins wouldn’t offer suck a job to me, because he 
knows I wouldn’t accept of it. It’s house-painting; that’s what 
it is.” 

“ Well — -but, Percy, haven’t some of the biggest big-wigs in 
the painting world done decorative panels and things of that sort? 
I’ve read it in the papers.” 

“ Ah, but look at the price they get for it ! But how does this 
chap up’old the dignity of Art? Yah!” And Mr. Snagge swal- 
lowed a gulp of brandy-and-water, and threw himself back in his 
chair with a face of scornful disgust. 

“Did you notice that young fellow sitting near the old lady at 
the top of the table?” asked Mr. Coney, after a pause. 

Mr. Snagge had so much difficulty in withdrawing his thoughts 
from the contemplation of William Hughes’s degraded baseness 
of spirit that the question had to be repeated before he answered. 
“Oh, a sickly-looking chap with black eyebrows? Yes; I saw 
him. He’s the clerk, somebody said. Rather a peculiar start 
having him at table ! Not that I am exclusive. I don’t object to 
a touch of Bo’emia; but — hang it all ! — let it be instinct with soul, 
Coney !” 

“ He’s Hughes’s nephew,” said Mr. Coney. 

“The clerk is! Ah, I think it’s a pity his uncle did not con- 
fine himself to the same line of business !” And with that he 
pushed his tumbler across the table, as a hint to have it replen- 
ished. 

Coney refilled it with a liberal hand, and mixed a second tum- 
bler for himself, after which he sat silently puffing out clouds of 
smoke for several minutes, while Percival Sna£o;e, with his leo-s 
stretched out on a second chair in front of him, and his eyes up- 
turned to the ceiling, sipped his grog, and muttered a fragmen- 
tary soliloquy after a fashion habitual with him. 

At length Mr. Coney, drawing his chair closer up to the table, 
and leaning his elbow on it, so as to be nearer to his friend’s ear, 
said, 

“ I’ll tell you a rum thing, Percy.” 

“ All right,” returned Mr. Snagge, with his cigar between his 
teeth. 


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149 


“You have heard me speak with Hopkins about a certain rich 
eccentric party I came across in the States some time ago ?” 

Snagge nodded. He had, indeed, heard a great deal more than 
he cared to hear on the subject. He had been irritated by the 
frequent introduction of it at Mortimer Hopkins’s parties for two 
reasons : firstly, it gave old Hopkins an opportunity for bragging 
about his late wife’s family connections, and, secondly, it inter- 
fered with the discussion of Mr. Snagge’s own favorite topics — 
himself and Titian. 

“ I have not mentioned this to any one but John Hopkins as 
yet,” pursued Mr. Coney. “ But to an old and trusted friend of 
boyhood’s hours like yourself, Percy, I can speak as man to man 
and heart to heart, partic’larly as you are off to Florence in a few 
days, and not very likely to come across any of the parties inter- 
ested.” 

Mr. Snagge received this touching expression of confidence 
without emotion, merely observing, in general terms, that he 
didn’t know the parties interested from Adam, and, not being a 
party interested himself, didn’t want to. 

“ Quite so,” answered Coney, approvingly. “ Well, sir, you 
may remember hearing me say that the individual in question 
being once laid up with a sprained foot in the same hotel where 
I was, out West, we were thrown a good deal together. He was 
curious to hear all I could tell him about the Hopkinses or any 
other members of his family. I was sitting beside his sofa one 
day when the post brought him a bundle of letters from England. 
One of ’em, I could see, was in a lawyer’s hand ; indeed, he had 
told me that he kept up communication with a London firm of 
solicitors, though he never let out the name. Uncommonly queer 
and close he was in some things, while about others he’d jaw away 
thirteen to the dozen. Well, he read this lawyer’s letter, and 
puckered up his eyes as he always did when he was thinking 
hard. And all of a sudden he asked me if I had ever come across 
any people of a certain name that he mentioned. I hadn’t ; and 
he said no more ; and the name, having nothing to hook it on to, 
so to say, went out of my head.” 

“ Ah !” drawled Mr. Snagge, lazily, watching a ring of smoke. 
“ It wasn’t my name, I suppose?” 

“ Stop a bit, Percy. No, it wasn’t your name. Once or twice 


150 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


afterwards I tried to return to the subject, and get him to tell it 
me again. But directly I touched it — mum ! lie shut up like 
an oyster. But the very moment I was introduced to that niece 
of Hughes’s, at Mrs. Green’s, it came back to me in a flash. The 
name, my boy, was Copley. And, what’s more — rare thing, mem- 
ory ! (the divine W. calls it the warden of the brain ; but, by George ! 
it goes to sleep on its post pretty often) — what’s more, I recol- 
lected then seeing the name of Claude on the first page of the 
letter as it lay on a chair beside the sofa. Now, Copley ain’t a 
very common name, but, combined with Claude, it’s downright 
uncommon.” 

“ And what then ?” demanded Mr. Snagge, curling his lip and 
tossing back his hair. 

“ Why, my idea is that these Copleys may represent some 
branch of the family that we don’t know of. And I intend to 
follow it up.” 

“ What ’ll be the good of that ?” retorted Snagge, still more 
scornfully. 

Mr. Coney, in his effusive mood — for which the fine Cognac 
was partly responsible — got up from his chair, and, stretching 
forth his right arm, and raising his voice, said, “ It interests me, 
Percy — call it waywardness, call it a mere hobby, if you will — it 
interests me. I was the first to stumble across the man when not 
a soul belonging to him knew where he was. And mv being an 
old friend of John Hopkins — our firm has supplied him with the 
patent adjustable brass-screw picture-frame rings for upwards of 
fifteen years — gives the thing a touch of romance. Since my re- 
turn to England I’ve taken a great interest in hunting up the ped- 
igree and surviving relatives of Mr. Christopher Dalton, and — 
what’s that ?” • 

This exclamation was caused by the sudden noise of some ob- 
ject falling to the ground on the other side of the glass door. A 
little green silk curtain fixed across the upper part of it prevented 
any one in the greenhouse from seeing into the drawing-room. 
But Mr. Coney, gently opening the door a little way, saw a lady 
on her knees, hurriedly picking up the contents of a small work- 
box — thimble, cotton-reels, scissors, and so forth — which, too'ether 
with the box itself, lay on the floor. The only other occupant of 
the room within his range of vision was a fat old woman in a mob- 


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151 


cap, dozing by the fire. But in a moment a tall female figure 
bounced across the room, with a movement hard, strong, active, 
and ruthless, as the flight of a cricket-ball, and proceeded, with 
many ejaculations, to assist the kneeling lady in gathering up the 
scattered articles. 

Mr. Coney softly closed the door again, and returned to his 
place. 

“ It’s that tousle-headed woman in blue,” he said, “dropped 
her work-box. She must have been right close against the door. 

O O 

I wonder if she could hear what we were saying? That room 
was very quiet.” 

The interruption had checked the current of Mr. Coney’s con- 
fidences. He resumed his usual manner, and suggested that per- 
haps they might now adjourn to the “ salong.” 

“ Well, I suppose you don’t mean to spend the rest of the 
evening here in the outhouse,” returned Mr. Snagge, fretfully. 

At Coney’s suggestion they first retired to their respective 
rooms, to have what he termed “ a brisk up.” This was effected 
by means of cold water and hard hair-brushes. To these refresh- 
ing appliances Mr. Snagge added a liberal sprinkling of cheap eau 
de Cologne over his moustaches and pocket-handkerchief, with in- 
tent to overpower the smell of tobacco hanging about him — which 
was well meant, but futile. 

When the two strangers entered the drawing-room at Mon- 
plaisir for the first time, they had no cause to complain of being 
coolly received. The room was by this time well filled. Madame 
Martin was there in person to do the honors ; and every boarder 
was present with the exception of Mr. Hughes, who had walked 
into Yevey after dinner, but was expected to return presently. 

Mr. Snagge mentally corrected his phrase about the old cats, as 
he looked round the room. They were not all old cats. Miss 
Susan Curdan was bright-eyed and buxom, and her elder sister a 
presentable middle-aged woman enough. Mrs. Armour, of course, 
considered herself (and was, perhaps, considered by some other 
persons) to be still in the category of charming women. Even 
M iss Jenks — but somehow -one never was able to associate Miss 
Jenks with any particular age. The parish register, no doubt, de- 
clared her years to be so many. And there are learned treatises 
which enable us to determine the epoch of a rock. But the un- 


152 


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informed could never guess how old it was by looking at it. So 
with Miss Jenks. There was a rugged strength about her that 
belongs neither to early youth nor advanced age. But, within 
those extreme points, the imagination wandered without land- 
marks. 

A certain flutter of excitement had prevailed among the ladies 
during the past week in respect of their preparations for the forth- 
coming party. Indeed, the comparatively deserted state of the 
drawing-room during the earlier portion of the evening was con- 
nected with this circumstance ; for nearly every woman in the 
house had been up-stairs, looking at Miss Susan Curdan’s new 
dress, spread out in silken sheen upon her bed. Not every one at 
Monplaisir -could afford a new gown, but every one had prepared 
some new adornment. It was even remarked that fat old Mrs. 
Hobday intended to wear roses in her mob-cap to do honor to 
the occasion ! 

But, from all similar excitements and anxieties, Miss Jenks was 
absolutely free. She, indeed, was a traveller who might sing in 
the face of highwaymen on her journey through life; for surely 
none ever made it with emptier saddle-bags. While the other 
women were hemming, and frilling, and trimming, and trying on, 
Miss Jenks serenely contemplated their proceedings, and made up 
her mind which articles it would be possible to borrow. 

When Messrs. Coney and Snagge joined the party, Miss Jenks 
was standing in an erect and martial attitude, with her back to 
the stove, engaged in a little altercation with Mrs. Armour, who 
had just exclaimed, sharply, “ Nonsense ! What was there to start 
at? I nearly fell asleep, and my work-box tumbled off my lap, 
and that woke me.” 

“ Mrs. Armour,” rejoined Miss Jenks, with unshaken firmness, 
“you deceive yourself. Your eyes were wide open, for I could 
see you quite plain from my corner, and you gave a sudden jerk, 
and down went the box, and I ran and helped you, and — ” 

“ Well, my good soul, have it your own way,” said Mrs. Ar- 
mour, with a sudden change of manner, from waspish irritability 
to languid disdain, for at that moment she caught sight of the 
two strangers. Leaning back in her chair, in an attitude which, 
although affected, was not ungraceful, and apparently occupied 
with her embroidery, she yet watched the new-comers keenly, and 


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153 


listened with particular attention when they spoke. Their voices 
were very dissimilar — Snagge’s thin and high-pitched, Coney’s full 
and deep. The fair Juliet, therefore, soon resolved her doubts as 
to which of them had so loudly and emphatically pronounced the 
words about Mr. Christopher Dalton and his surviving relations 
that had caught her ear. Was it to her Uncle Christopher he 
had been alluding? And what could this man know of her Uncle 
Christopher? Some persons would have simply proceeded to ask 
those questions. But that was not Mrs. Armour’s method. She 
waited. 

Presently Claude Copley came and sat near her. 

“I believe your uncle is a friend of these — gentlemen?” she 
said, with a pause before the epithet, which made it infinitely 
contemptuous. 

“ He knows who they are ; but it is scarcely likely that they 
should be friends of his,” rejoined Claude, bristling a little. 

“ I don’t know. He seems to have a most catholic tolerance 
for vulgarians. He is not so fastidious as a certain relative of his 
whom I could mention.” 

This, accompanied by a glance and a smile, flattered the fool- 
ish boy. He was weak enough to enjoy the intended compli- 
ment, even at the expense of his uncle — even against his own 
better knowledge. For flattery, like other insidious draughts, 
need not overcome our reason in order to be greedily swallowed. 
It suffices to bribe our passions. 

“ Well, and who are they ?” 

“ Oh, one is an upper sort of bagman, and the fellow who 
wants his hair cut calls himself an artist, I believe.” 

“ I see I am to be pestered by one of these creatures, at any 
rate !” said Mrs. Armour ; for she observed Mr. Coney look in 
her direction, and then say something earnestly to Madame Mar- 
tin. 

Mrs. Armour coquettishly passed her fingers over the frizzy 
locks of hair on her forehead, and prepared to receive the stranger 
with a nicely adjusted mixture of condescension and fascination. 
But, to her blank surprise, Madaine Martin waddled across the 
room to young Copley, and saying, “ Come now, Monsieur Claude, 
one of these gentlemen wants to talk to you, my dear,” seized him 
unceremoniously by the arm and waddled off with him. 


154 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Mr. Coney, having not the most distant idea that a young 
fellow in Claude’s position would be otherwise than gratified by 
his notice, was not quick to perceive that young gentleman’s 
supercilious airs. The notion of a clerk in a boarding-house 
“ putting side on,” as he would have expressed it, in communi- 
cating with him, Nathaniel Coney, was one which he would nat- 
urally be slow to receive. He set down the lad’s manner to 
shyness, and addressed him encouragingly. 

“Pleasure of knowing your uncle,” said Mr. Coney, holding 
out two fingers, which Claude feigned not to see. 

“ Did you wish to speak to me?” he asked, abruptly. 

“Yes; don’t put yourself about. I merely wished to ask you 
a question — ” 

“ I must trouble you to be brief,” rejoined Claude, drawing 
his black brows together, “for I am unusually occupied just 
now.” 

Mr. Coney began to think that the young man was not shy, but 
awkward and inexperienced — somewhat of a cub, in short. But 
he answered, still encouragingly, that he supposed they were all 
pretty busy about the party which he understood was to come off 
to-morrow; but that Claude need not be uneasy, since Madame 
Martin knew where he was, and didn’t want him just then. 
“Now, just sit down a moment,” he said, “ and I’ll come to the 
point. Do you happen to have any relatives of the name of 
Dalton?” 

Claude was tempted to answer, “ What’s that to you ?” but 
limited himself to saying, “ No,” in as curt a tone as possible. 

“ Ah, but gently — gently !” said Mr. Coney, laying his hand 
on the young man’s sleeve. “ Don’t be in a hurry. Are you 
sure , now? Distant relation, perhaps! Or connection by mar- 
riage ?” 

Claude, who had been already mortified by being marched off 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


155 


under Mrs. Armour’s eyes in obedience to “the bagman’s” be- 
hest, as if he were a schoolboy, was still further mortified by see- 
ing that lady regarding him from the other side of the room with 
a pitying smile, and he replied, stiffly, “I have no relative of that 
name, sir.” 

“ Do you know the name ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Never heard it ?” 

“ How the deuce can I say whether I ever heard it or not ?” 
exclaimed Claude, irritably. “ I may have heard thousands of 
names that I don’t remember.” 

“Young sir,” began Mr. Coney, majestically; but Claude in- 
terrupted him. “Well, I really beg your pardon, but I can only 
say that I know nothing whatever about the name you mention, 
and am quite unable to assist your inquiries.” And Claude, ab- 
ruptly rising from his chair, walked away without further cere- 
mony. 

“ I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy !” muttered Mr. 
Coney, staring after him. “That is to say, if you are peevish, 
and not cracked. I never encountered anything so — ‘ But let the 
stricken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must 
watch while others — conduct themselves in a singularly snappish 
and ungentlemanly manner. Thus runs the world away.’ ” 

And with this Mr. Coney — who was never more Shakespearian 
than when under the influence of some mild potations — stalked 
with dignity to a chair. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Armour had been closely watching the col- 
loquy between him and Claude with considerable curiosity, and 
had expected the latter to return to her side and report what had 
passed. But Claude had been intercepted and summoned away 
by his uncle, who had returned from Vevey, and wished to con- 
cert with him some arrangements for the morrow. 

It seemed, indeed, as though the fascinating widow ran some 
risk of being entirely neglected this evening. Most of the com- 
pany gathered round Mr. Coney, who was indemnified for young 
Copley’s impertinent behavior by the attentions of the ladies, and 
was making himself generally agreeable. While Miss Jenks, still 
holding her post near the stove, had Mr. Snagge all to herself, for 
old Mrs. Hobday, socially speaking, didn’t count. 


156 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Mrs. Armour was aware that the other women in the house 
disliked and avoided her. It might have been supposed that the 
first fact rendered the second rather acceptable than otherwise. 
But it was not so ; for, although she did not want their company, 
she bitterly resented their objecting to hers. But latterly Juliet 
Armour had not taken the matter to heart as she did some weeks 
ago. Her scorn for these people had come to have an almost 
exhilarating effect — like a fiery cordial — ever since she had en- 
tertained the hope of getting away from them into brighter 
scenes, -inhabited by rich acquaintances — who, in fact, made the 
brightness. 

After some careful consideration, she resolved to investigate at 
once what might be the meaning of those words of Coney’s which 
she had overheard. And having resolved, she acted with prompti- 
tude. Rising from her chair, she walked straight to the group 
beside the stove, and said coolly : 

“Miss Jenks, I wish you would do me the favor to go to my 
room and fetch my little Shetland shawl. My tiresome ankle is 
so lame again to-night !” And stretching out a slender, well- 
shaped foot in a scarlet stocking and smart slipper, she added, for 
Mr. Snagge’s behoof, “ It has never been strong since that car- 
riage accident in India.” 

Miss Jenks glared at her obdurately. 

“ I don’t know where to find your shawl,” she said. 

“ It is lying folded on the toilet-table with the black lace fichu 
we were speaking of yesterday. You may as well take that to 
your room at once, when you are there.” 

“May I? All right!” returned Miss Jenks, and marched off 
at once without hesitation. She perfectly understood that the 
loan of the black lace fichu — previously refused — was the bribe 
offered for doing Mrs. Armour’s errand. But to this Miss Jenks 
had no objection. It was a bargain that suited her. She had 
long coveted the fichu, and now looked forward complacently to 
figuring in it to-morrow evening. 

And let it not be supposed that Miss Jenks particularly re- 
gretted the interruption of her tete-a-tete with Mr. Snagge. She 
had falsified Madame Martin’s half-jocular prognostications by 
taking the arrival of the two new gentlemen with comparative 
indifference. This circumstance was noted with surprise by the 


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157 


other ladies, but served to strengthen in Miss Susan Curdan’s 
mind the lurid suspicions before alluded to. 

No sooner was Miss Jenks’s back turned than Mrs. Armour, ad- 
dressing Mr. Snagge without preamble, said, “Your friend is a 
traveller, I fancy.” 

Mr. Snagge bowed, and was on the point of adding that his 
friend had travelled only for very leading firms, when it occurred 
to him that the lady’s words had probably no technical signifi- 
cance. And he replied that Coney had been about the world a 
good deal, and knew many men and many countries. 

“ Do you know if he ever came across a Mr. Christo- 
pher Dalton in his travels? I think I heard him mention the 
name.” 

Mr. Snagge’s reply to this artless inquiry was of so interesting 
and unexpected a nature that Mrs. Armour forgot her languid 
airs, forgot her lame ankle, forgot, even, to watch the effect of 
her personal fascinations on Mr. Snagge, and, hurrying him to an 
unoccupied part of the room, made him sit down beside her, and 
listened eagerly to what he had to say. 

Mr. Snagge’s information, however, being soon exhausted, he 
was despatched for Mr. Coney to complete it. “ Imagine my 
feelings, Mr. Coney,” said Mrs. Armour, with clasped hands, and 
a spot of bright color on each usually pale cheek, “ on being told 
that you have quite recently — within a year or two — seen and 
spoken with my uncle, Christopher Dalton — my mother’s own, 
dearly loved brother. For years I have been anxiously wonder- 
ing w r hether he still lived. And now — what an extraordinary 
chance that I should meet you here !” 

“ Then you, madam,” said Mr. Coney, in the deep, guttural 
tones which his friends associated with the soliloquies in “ Ham- 
let,” “ must be Juliet, third and youngest daughter of the late 
Richard Bingham Kirby, M.D., formerly of Half Moon Street, 
Piccadilly.” 

y 

“ I am, indeed ! But may I ask how you know so much about 
my family ?” 

“Acting from no personal motives whatever, but merely on 
behalf of a young friend of mine, who is also a friend of Mr. 
Dalton’s family, I have informed myself pretty accurately about 
that gentleman’s surviving relatives, among whom I am proud 


158 


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and happy, madam, to welcome so graceful an acquisition as 
yourself,” replied Mr. Coney, with a hospitable air. 

“Your young friend, a member of my uncle’s family?” said 
Mrs. Armour, sharply. “ Who can that be ? I have, it is true, 
been so long an exile from England that there are a hundred 
points I may require to be informed upon. But I believe I 
know pretty well all my mother’s relations. At any rate, those 
near enough to — to — ” 

“To have any chance of coming in for a slice of the cake,” 
said Mr. Coney, with perfect gravity. 

“Of course your friend, no doubt, is in a position to prove his 
relationship ; but I need not tell a man of the world like yourself 
that in such a case as the present one must be on one’s guard 
against imposture.” 

Mr. Coney waved his hand in a lordly manner. “ No fear of 
that, madam ! We know who all the next of kin are. And if 
we didn’t, the law — the law, madam — would protect the interests 
of the rightful parties. The ’umblest subject in our realm may 
declare in the words of the bard, ‘ The laws of England are at my 
commandment,’ provided he’s prepared to pay for ’em.” Then, 
sinking into prose, and looking fixedly at the lady, he added, 
“ Besides, you know, there can be no talk of ‘ claimants ’ at pres- 
ent. Mr. Dalton is alive, and his money is his own, to do what 
he likes with. Only it may be well for the family to be prepared 
for the possible contingency of his dying intestate.” 

“ I should think so !” exclaimed Mrs. Armour, emphatically. 
“ He ought to be looked after.” 

Within a few minutes the rumor that Mrs. Armour’s long-lost 
uncle had been discovered by Messrs. Coney and Snagge in the 
wilds of Western America, the possessor of fabulous wealth, and 
having no relation nearer than his niece, had spread through Mon- 
plaisir. A quarter of an hour ago not a creature in the Pension 
was aware that Mrs. Armour ever had an uncle; but now some of 
them appeared to persuade themselves that they had long been 
wondering what had become of him ; apd they discussed his story 
with a copiousness of detail truly marvellous. Such was the con- 
tagion of the general excitement that even the Miss Curdans spoke 
sympathetically of what Mrs. Armour’s agitation must have been 
on so unexpectedly receiving news of a relative whom she had 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


159 


long mourned as lost. And Mrs. Ford distinctly shocked public 
feeling by expressing her doubts of Mrs. Armour’s having ever 
mourned him or anybody else ! 

Mrs. Armour rather encouraged than checked the diffusion of 
this news. She had been cautious, at first, how she asserted her 
relationship with Christopher Dalton, having an undefined impres- 
sion on her mind that he had done something disgraceful. But 
what could be disgraceful enough to obscure the effulgence of two 
millions and a half of dollars? And Mr. Coney assured her that 
competent authorities in the States had set down Chris Dalton’s 
“ pile” at not a cent under that sum. In any case, to be known 
as having “ expectations ” of such magnitude was in itself a source 
of social importance. 

The buzz of conversation on this exciting theme was at its 
height; Miss Susan Curdan had not favored the company with one 
of her three songs; Mrs. Ford had foregone her nightly game of 
patience; even the Russian lady had paused in her bezique to have 
the interesting topic interpreted to her by one of her polyglot 
children ; when Miss Jenks, who had not returned to the salon 
since leaving it in quest of Mrs. Armour’s shawl, suddenly burst 
into the apartment, exclaiming in a loud voice, “ He has come 
back I Here he is !” 

Everybody started. Susan Curdan uttered a stifled scream ; 
and her elder sister pressed her hand on her heart. 

“Who’s come back, Miss Jenks? Who is it?” demanded 
Madame Martin, jumping up from her chair. 

“ Mr. Hughes. I happened to go into the sallamongjay, and 
there he was, talking to Mr. Claude Copley, and looking so pale 
and fagged that I really think, Madame Martin, you ought to go 
and give him a glass of wine or something. I begged him to take 
one for my sake; but he — wouldn’t,” said Miss Jenks, coming to 
an abrupt close. 

“ Lard, my dear,” cried Madame Martin, feeling that she inter- 
preted the unanimous sentiments of the company, “why in the 
world do you come startling us like that, about good, quiet Mr. 
Hughes, who is the mildest of gentlemen, and never thinks of 
making any embarras ? When you called out ‘ He’s come back !’ 
in that way, I vow and declare I thought you meant the old 
gentleman from America !” 


160 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ I don’t know who you mean by the old gentleman from 
America,” returned Miss Jenks, entirely unabashed. “But I 
wish you’d go and see after Mr. Hughes. lie looks downright 
ill !” 

Madame Martin would, perhaps, have disregarded this request 
in the case of any one except her favorite, Mr. Hughes. But she 
would not run the risk of neglecting him, although she put small 
faith in the accuracy of Miss Jenks’s statements, and so hurried 
off. 

“ Well, upon my word,” said Miss Susan Curdan, indignantly. 
“Things have come to a pretty pass when that woman publicly 
announces that she begged Mr. Hughes to take a glass of wine 
for her sake ! Her sake !” 

“ Ah, but he didn’t do it,” observed Mrs. Ford. 

“Oh, Mrs. Ford, it is too monstrous! The way she throws 
herself at his head ! And lately she actually tries to take pos- 
session of him.” 

“Ah! — she tries ,” observed Mrs. Ford, again. 

“ And he is so refined — so truly the gentleman, that I can’t 
understand — ” 

“ Why, that’s the very reason ! The poor dear man doesn’t 
see it. Or, if he does, he won’t believe his senses.” 

“You think he doesn’t see it? Well, I confess I hoped — I 
mean, I thought it impossible that he should — ” 

“Should think of marrying Miss Jenks? Rather /” Then, 
after glancing at Miss Susan’s half-averted face, the old woman 
went on in a gentler tone, “And I’ll tell you what, my dear: I 
don’t believe he’ll ever think of any woman in that way. He 
has gone through a deal of trouble. You can see it in liis face ; 
and, besides, I’ve noticed words that Madame Martin has let 
drop. He has regularly sacrificed himself to his family. That’s 
no secret; and among the other troubles, there may have been a 
love trouble. I dare say there was, for there’s plenty of fire and 
feeling in those eyes of his. But if there was, it’s been dead and 
buried this many a year. Only — with some men, the ghost of 
such a trouble walks ; and I think he’s one of ’em.” 

Presently Madame Martin came back and told them that Mr. 
Hughes had a nervous headache, and would go to bed at once. 
Neither did Claude return to the drawing-room that evening; but, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


161 


after making up bis accounts in the solitude of the bureau, re- 
paired to bis own chamber. 

William, whose room adjoined Claude’s, was sitting there in 
the dark when he heard his nephew’s step, and called to him to 
come in and speak with him for a moment. 

Claude was graver than usual. He had been thinking, for 
once, of others instead of being exclusively occupied with him- 
self ; and so ennobling was even this passing glance of unselfish- 
ness that the lad's face wore a manlier look than his uncle had 
ever seen on it. 

“ I merely wanted to say, Claude, in reference to our conversa- 
tion down-stairs,” said William, “ that this man Coney is not to 
blame. He could not know that he was touching on a subject 
full of such deep sorrow to me. But if he recurs to it, tell him 
that I have emphatically assured you that — the man is no kith or 
kin of yours, even in the remotest degree, and bid him never 
mention his name to me.” 

Claude stood, with his candle in his hand, looking earnestly at 
his uncle. 

“ Don’t you think you had better get to rest now, Uncle Will- 
iam ?” he said. “I’m afraid your head must be ^ery bad; your 
face looks so drawn.” 

“ I will — I will, my boy. Good-night.” 

Claude still lingered. “ I don’t want to hurry you,” he said, 
“ but this man, this Dalton — you say he is a scoundrel ?” 

“ A black villain.” 

“ And he brought injury and disgrace on our family years 

ago ?” 

“ Irreparably.” 

“ I should like to know — I think I have a right to know — did 
his villainy affect — my mother ?” 

“Your mother? It affected us all, but not her chiefly,” an- 
swered William, as if doubtful of the drift of this question. 
Then, after a glance at his nephew’s face, he added quickly, 
“Your mother, Claude, was one of the sweetest and most stainless 
souls on earth. You can never think of her too highly.” 

Claude drew a long breath of relief, and, wishing his uncle 
“ good-night,” softly closed the door, and went away. 

tl I suppose, after all, it was some rascality connected with 
11 


162 


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money,” lie said to himself, as he was undressing. “ I know my 
grandfather was ruined by the bad behavior of somebody — 
Larcher told me that — and the shock killed him. That must ac- 
count for Uncle William’s taking it so deeply to heart.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

No better balm for William Hughes’s spirit could have been 
devised than the letter from Barbara, which he found beside his 
plate at breakfast the next morning. 

All was going well with her and Aunt Judith. Her engage- 
ment with Lady Lambton still continued, but she gave a jesting 
hint that she expected her occupation there to be gone before 
very long; for Mr. Fritz Hofmann’s attentions in that quarter 
were assiduous, and my lady appeared to receive them encourag- 
ingly. Mr. Hofmann was always pleasant and gentlemanlike in 
his manner to her. He had hurried after her in the street the 
other day to show her a letter from his Cousin Ida, mentioning 
her “ great good fortune ” in being able to have lessons from Mr. 
William Hughes. Moreover — and this Barbara thought specially 
kind and considerate — he had taken the trouble to bring the letter 
to their house last Sunday evening, in order that Aunt Judith 
might read the passage herself ; and had remained chatting for 
more than an hour. Uncle William would remember the mention 
of a Mrs. Shortway, whom they had met at Mrs. Green’s conver- 
sazione? Well, Aunt Judith had struck up quite a friendship 
with the Shortways, and had made elaborate calculations, showing 
that if she baked the cakes at home, it would cost “ next to 
nothing” to invite the ladies to tea in return ! “ And, in short,” 

wrote Barbara, “Aunt Judith and Larcher, between them, are bent 
on plunging into the vortex of society ; and you need not be sur- 
prised if you stumble over rout seats in the passage, or find red 
cloth laid down on the doorstep when you come home. ‘ When 
you come home !’ how good that sounds ! And yet I am afraid 
that is rather selfish ; for your visit to Switzerland has been good 
for you in many ways, and I ought rather to wish it protracted 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


163 


than shortened. It must have been very good for Claude, too. 
Aunt Judith is so happy in the news of his improved health.” 

William’s eyes beamed as he read this, and much more in the 
same cheerful strain. And in answer to the inquiries on all sides, 
he declared himself quite recovered from his headache, and look- 
ing forward to the party that evening with great zest. He was 
not accustomed to make the most of his troubles ; nor had he 
that curious shame at being easily pleased, and willing to be di- 
verted from painful thoughts, which is observable in many per- 
sons. His grief had been keen and cruel ; and the old wounds 
would throb at a touch to his dying day. But he did not re- 
nounce cakes and ale for himself, nor — which is common — grudge 
them to other people, because there were sad things hidden deep 
in his heart. Nay, his very child-like power of enjoyment was 
intimately connected with the tenderness of his nature, for it had 
its root in sympathy. 

A sort of rough programme of the evening’s entertainment had 
been privately agreed upon by a select committee of the ladies, it 
having been feared that without some such precaution the public 
cause might suffer. They might all fall victims to some exorbi- 
tant bore, who, having seized the ear of the house, might persist in 
holding — not to say tweaking — it at immoderate length. There 
was, for instance, a general, though unacknowledged, terror of 
Miss Jenks. She had never been heard to sing, and was believed 
not to play any musical instrument. But suppose she took it 
into her head to recite, or to read, or to deliver a lecture ! Who 
should undertake to stop her if she once began ? The only chance 
was to prevent her from beginning. 

Miss Susan Curdan had magnanimously limited herself to one 
song. The eldest Russian girl was also to sing ; and the German 
governess — a powerful performer — was to wreak her executive 
genius on the aged pianoforte. Mr. Hughes would, of course, 
perform in various ways, and every one would be willing to listen 
to him. So far all was satisfactory, when at the last moment, to 
the general consternation, Mrs. Hobday, breaking forth from her 
usual state of somnolent taciturnity, announced her intention of 
repeating “ a piece.” 

She had got it off by heart at school, fifty-four years ago, she 
said ; but she knew it as well as if she had learned it only yester- 


164 


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day, and she was sure it would please. It had always been thought 
very pretty. 

Hints, and even open remonstrance, were quite unavailing. 
Mrs. Hobday didn’t see why she shouldn’t speak her piece. “ It 
’ud be quite as well worth hearing as a deal that she had to listen 
to every evening !” (This, by the way, was rather disingenuous ; 
for Mrs. Hobday possessed the faculty of going to sleep in her 
chair at a moment’s notice ; and used it freely). “ And, any way, 
it was Mr. Hughes’s party ; and Mr. Hughes had asked ’em all to 
‘contribute their various talents to give brilliancy to the evening.’ ” 
She remembered his very words ! So if there was any caballing 
she should speak to Mr. Hughes, and they’d hear what he'd say. 

The effect of this extraordinary manifestation of spirit on the 
part of Mrs. Hobday was at first almost paralyzing. It was as 
though a hippopotamus should begin to roar carnivorously for 
prey. 

“ We can only fervently hope and trust that she’ll forget it 
again before the time comes,” moaned Miss Susan Curdan to 
Mrs. Ford. 

“ Or that her ‘ piece’ may be short,” rejoined the latter. 

As some counterpoise to this blow, it w T as ascertained, by the 
method of direct questions — for all now felt it to be necessary 
they should know the worst — that Miss Jenks did not purpose 
entertaining the company with anybody’s eloquence but her own. 

The usual dinner- hour at Monplaisir had been considerably 
anticipated by general consent, in order to give the ladies time to 
dress after it, and to allow the servants to prepare for the fes- 
tival of the evening. As eight o’clock struck, William Hughes 
stood at the door of the salon to receive his guests. To such 
persons as are accustomed to regard the materials of the lantern 
rather than the quality of the light he would have presented, no 
doubt, but a poor figure, being dressed in plain dark morning 
clothes, for he did not possess an evening suit in the world, and 
said so simply. 

He had given the inmates of Monplaisir carte blanche to invite 
each one friend ; so that the company was reinforced by some 
half-dozen outsiders — nearly all belonging to that curious nomad 
tribe of Britons who frequent Continental boarding-houses of the 
second class. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


165 


Among the first arrivals were Miss Stringer and Ida, the latter 
muffled up to the eyes in white cashmere and swan’s-down, but 
looking very like an invalid, nevertheless. Mrs. Kettering had 
begged to be excused (“ lazy after dinner,” explained Miss String- 
er, with a confidential nod) ; and Olga had accompanied some 
American acquaintances to a dance at Geneva, where she was to 
stay all night. “ Olga can never resist a dance. But this creature 
doesn’t go to grown-up balls yet,” said Sally, laying her hand on 
the girl’s shoulder. 

“ No; and if I did, I should like coming here better,” said Ida, 
bluntly. “ I shall have balls enough in my life, I dare say. But 
I sha’n’t have the chance of seeing — ” 

But at this point Miss Stringer hurried her young cousin away, 
on pretence of securing a corner where she would be sheltered 
from draughts. 

Next appeared Mrs. Ford, whose handsome lace cap and ruffles 
and solid black-silk gown were evidently disappointing to Ida. 
Basing her hopes on the appearance of Miss Jenks at their first 
and only interview, she had looked for something much more 
unconventional. And now entered in quick succession the two 
Curdans, the Russians with their governess, Mrs. Hobday (at 
sight of whom, in her mob-cap, with two huge cabbage-roses, 
Ida cheered up a little) — and Mrs. Armour. 

Mrs. Armour, having superciliously swept the prospect with 
her eye-glass, espied Miss Stringer and Ida Kettering in their 
corner, and at once made towards them. with an ostentation of 
affectionate familiarity, whereat Ida opened her eyes very wide 
and Sally shut her eyes very tight. 

“What a comfort to find some fellow - creatures !” said Mrs. 
Armour, taking no particular pains to lower her tone of voice. 
“ This is the queerest menagerie ! How good of you to come ! 
Really, Mr. Hughes ought to be flattered.” 

To all of which Miss Sally, steadfastly regarding her with her 
bright gray eyes, returned no other answer than a sound made 
with closed teeth, which may perhaps be represented as “H’ms!” 
and a short nod. 

Ida, meanwhile, was looking about her with a steady and in- 
quiring gaze. Presently she pulled Sally by the sleeve, and said, 
in a tone of deep discontent : 


166 


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“Now, just look there, Sally, at that young man by the door. 
Why, he looks quite proper /” 

“ Eh ?” said Mrs. Armour, following her glance, and seeing 
that it rested on young Copley. “ Oh yes ; that is really a very 
presentable young fellow — the only one here. Shall I present 
him to you? He is — ” 

“Oh no!” cried Ida, with an injured air. “No, please! lie 
looks just like lots of the young men who come to mamma’s 
dance every season. We don’t want him /” 

Mrs. Armour — to Sally’s secret amusement — looked very much 
puzzled by this. But what was her amazement when, the next 
minute, Ida, clasping her hands, exclaimed, enthusiastically, 
“ There she is at last, and two lovely ones with her !” and she 
perceived that these words were undoubtedly applied to Miss 
Jenks and Messrs. Snagge and Coney, who just then happened 
to enter the room almost together. 

Miss Jenks had at least one quality usually attributed to high 
breeding; it was impossible to put her out of countenance. 
Looked at from the mantua-maker’s point of view, she was this 
evening “ a thing of shreds and patches,” being, in fact, attired 
by involuntary contributions from the wardrobes of a heteroge- 
neous set of women. Yet she marched up the room with a cool 
intrepidity and self-confidence which no duchess, conscious of an 
unassailable toilette, could have surpassed. 

Owing to her unusual height, she had found it impossible to 
wear any other lady’s skirt, so the brown stuff gown had to do 
duty yet once again ; but over her shoulders was thrown the black 
lace fichu, fastened by a massive pebble shawl-brooch set in silver, 
belonging to Miss Curdan. Mrs. Ford had supplied some white lace 
frilling for the throat. But, owing possibly to unskilfulness in its 
adjustment, at every movement of Mrs. Jenks’s head this frilling 
caught Miss Jenks’s hair on stiff -starched spikes, as a hedge of 
thorns catches fleece, and gave her coiffure a strangely wild and 
ragged appearance. On her breast below the brooch was pinned 
a bow of rose-colored ribbon, rummaged out from the bottom of 
an old cardboard box belonging to Susan Curdan, and a sash of 
the same ribbon encircled her waist and fell in short ends behind; 
Miss Jenks having maintained, in opposition to Miss Susan’s ob- 
jection to its incongruity on a brown stuff dress, that for her part 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


167 


she thought coffee-color and pink went uncommonly well together. 
A string of imitation-coral beads had been contributed by one of 
the Russian children, and with Madame Martin’s black-lace mit- 
tens — and if the truth must be told, a pair of her black stock- 
ings also — Miss Jenks was satisfied that she made an excellent 
figure. 

As to Mr. Snagge and Mr. Coney, they had drawn forth Ida 
Kettering’s ejaculation of delight by appearing, the former in his 
picturesque black velveteen, the latter in the Shakespearian garb in 
which he looked so striking. 

The company being by this time all assembled, William Hughes, 
as in duty bound, opened the musical entertainment by getting 
his guitar and playing a short and simple Neapolitan melody. 
“ He plays, really, very nicely,” said Mrs. Armour, with an air of 
half-surprised condescension. 

“ I should think so !” exclaimed Ida. “ Why, he’s a very ac- 
complished man in music, and languages, and everything!” 

“Yes; but he never mentions it,” added Sally, dryly, “which 
isn’t fair. Because, how are people to know?” 

Mr. Hughes now looked round the room, hesitating whom to 
ask to perform. Susan Curdan tried to catch his eye, and gave 
him a hint of the programme which had been arranged ; but, with 
a fell promptitude, which no one could have foreseen, Mrs. Hob- 
day stood up broad awake from her chair beside the fire, and said, 
in husky but distinctly audible tones, “ Mr. Hughes, I will now 
repeat a piece, sir, if you are agreeable.” 

William was certainly as much surprised as any one by this 
obliging proposition; but he was much less shocked than the 
committee of ladies. That arose from the difference between 
their points of view — theirs being that Mrs. Hobday’s absurd in- 
trusion would injure a display of talent which otherwise could 
not fail to dazzle the contingent from the rival boarding-houses ; 
his being that, since he invited them to perform at all in order to 
please them, and not himself, there was really no reason why Mrs. 
Ilobday should not have her share of the amusement. It was 
well for him that they did not suspect how he looked at the mat- 
ter; for not all his benevolence would have compensated the ob- 
jects of it for being lumped together in his tolerant kindness and 
good-will. 


168 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


With his accustomed gentleness, he turned to the old lady and 
said, “ That is very good of you, Mrs. Hobday.” 

“These ladies wanted to put me down; but they got hold of 
the wrong one,” said Mrs. Hobday. 

“ No, no,” answered William, in a soothing tone. “ I am sure 
you are mistaken there. We are all very much obliged to you. 
This is quite a friendly gathering, you know.” 

“ Ah,” returned Mrs. Hobday, “ that’s as it may be. But, any- 
how, since you’re agreeable, Mr. Hughes, I’ll say my piece.” 

Accordingly, she was ceremoniously conducted to the end of 
the room, facing the majority of the company, and then, by her 
own request, accommodated with an arm-chair. A good many 
persons did not notice what was going on ; but a little knot of 
curious spectators — among whom Ida Kettering pressed eagerly 
forward — gathered round the chair where Mrs. Hobday was seat- 
ed, with her hands folded before her, and her eyes upturned. It 
so chanced that they rested on Miss Jenks, whose tall figure tow- 
ered conspicuously above the rest, and when Mrs. Hobday thus 
began : “ Who is she, the poor maniac ?” she made so sensible a 
pause here, that a sensation as of a shock from an electric battery 
ran through the circle. But it presently appeared that, owing to 
a wheezy shortness of breath, Mrs. Hobday was constrained to 
cut her sentences into short lengths ; and this she did, with an 
accurate attention to rhythm, and none whatever to reason, by 
making a full stop at the end of each line : 

“ Whose wildly fixed eyes. 

Seem a heart overcharged to express. 

She speaks not, but often and deeply she sighs. 

She never complains, but her silence implies. 

The composure of settled distress.” 

And so on through the whole of Southey’s verses about “ Mary, 
the Maid of the Inn.” 

“ Well, that is wonderful, isn’t it?” said Ida Kettering, when it 
was over. She had been intensely interested in the exhibition. 
The full flavor of its comicality in a great measure escaped her. 
But she knew it was very “ queer and she had come to Mon- 
plaisir expressly to gratify her curiosity about the queer people it 
contained. 

“ Will and I think so too, Miss Kettering,” assented Miss Jenks, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


169 


with perfect gravity. “ Such a trial of memory for a lady at her 
time of life ! I did not quite follow the meaning. But then it 
is difficult to make out the meaning of poetry unless you know 
what it’s about beforehand.” 

As to Mrs. Hobday, she was apparently indifferent to public 
opinion upon her performance. When Mr. Hughes politely escort- 
ed her back to her favorite place near the fire, she observed, firmly, 
and with a tone of inward triumph, “ Well, I said my piece,” and 
immediately shut her eyes, and fell asleep for the remainder of 
the evening. 

“Well, I am truly thankful that's over!” piously ejaculated 
Susan Curdan. 

“ And / am thankful Mrs. Armour didn’t hear it !” added her 
sister. “ She would have made some very cutting remarks, you 
may depend on it ; and I dare say she will be worse than ever 
now, having an uncle with millions, and only she — by what I 
gathered last night — to inherit ! She’s quite taken up with her 
rich friends over yonder.” 

Mrs. Armour had remained near Miss Stringer, and had been 
endeavoring, not so much to ingratiate herself with that impracti- 
cable lady, as to find out whether it would be worth while to do so. 
She was still quite uncertain as to Sally’s real position in the Ket- 
tering household. At any rate, it would be, she thought, politic to 
let the whole party know of the brilliant expectations which had so 
suddenly burst upon her. Accordingly, she imparted them to Miss 
Stringer, with what flourishes occurred to her at the moment. 

Sally listened in silence, but with growing interest, until Mrs. 
Armour mentioned her uncle’s name; and then she exclaimed : 

“ Why, mercy on me, that makes eight I know, counting my- 
self ! And you may be sure that a good many more of us will 
turn up, if Christopher Dalton lasts much longer. Upon my word, 
I am beginning seriously to doubt whether even ten thousand 
pounds would pay one for the wear and tear of discovering so 
many new relations. What do you think? But you’re a niece, 
and your share would, of course, be much bigger than that of a 
first-cousin once removed.” 

“ I don’t understand you,” returned Mrs. Armour, with a forced 
smile on her lips, but some very hard suspicion and anxiety in her 
eyes. 


170 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ That proves that you haven’t been living among a certain set 
in town lately, or you would have been furnished with a surpris- 
ing number of details on the subject. The copious inaccuracy of 
people is exasperating beyond words. However, I can promise 
not to be copious, and I’ll try not to be inaccurate.” 

And then Miss Sally proceeded, in very curt but perfectly clear 
phrases, to relate all she knew about the surviving kindred of 
Christopher Dalton. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ One thing is clear : I must go at once to London,” said Juliet 
Armour to herself, after her colloquy with Miss Stringer. 

She was in a state of irritable excitement. Matters of the 
gravest importance to her interests had been going on without 
her knowledge — she might never have known them but for the 
mere accident of meeting with Mr. Coney — and she was fever- 
ishly anxious to be doing something on her own behalf. She 
would trust no one — no one ! 

This fellow Coney, whom she treated to several contumelious 
epithets in her thoughts while endeavoring to profit by his infor- 
mation and advice, was evidently a partisan of the Hopkinses. 
He had probably influenced her Uncle Christopher in favor of the 
young man Mortimer. What might he not have had it in his 
power to say or insinuate, seeing that he was the only person cog- 
nizant of his family connections who had had access to Mr. Dalton 
for years! She wished she could be transported to America that 
moment. She wished she could sit down then and there and 
indite a long letter to her uncle. 

She was now his nearest living relative, except, of course, her 
sister Dora. She had almost forgotten Dora. She was his own 
sister’s child. She was sure she remembered that he had been 
much attached to her mother until that wretched quarrel. How 
had the quarrel arisen? No matter. It had raged chiefly be- 
tween her father and her uncle; of that she was quite certain. 
It could not, surely, be visited on her, who was a little child in 
the nursery when it happened. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


171 

Coney strongly dissuaded her from writing to her uncle. He 
said that Mr. Dalton had grown so eccentric, so suspicious, and so 
averse from holding any communication with his former friends 
that a letter from any of them would but exasperate him. That 
sounded plausible, but Coney might have his own motives for 
saying so. At this very moment, for all she knew, young Mor- 
timer Hopkins might be in correspondence with Dalton. She 
must find some agent to watch her interests on the other side of 
the Atlantic. But such an agent might be costly, and she had 
very little money to spare. Perhaps Dora could help her. Dora’s 
income was very small ; but then Dora had so few expenses and 
so few wants. 

All these thoughts were rushing through Juliet Armour’s brain 
under the bush of rough, fair hair that covered her forehead to 
the eyebrows. And at the same time poor William Hughes’s party 
was proceeding with increased spirit and merriment. Mr. Coney 
had spouted Hamlet and the philosophic Jacques ; Mr. Snagge 
had held forth about the ’igli Ideal of Art ; and the host had 
earned great applause by a burlesque recital of the ballad of “ Lord 
Bateman ” (although Miss Jenks had observed indignantly to Ida 
Kettering that she could see nothing to laugh at in it ; for Mr. 
Hughes spoke the words with great feeling. And she did not think 
it showed the gentleman, or the lady either, to giggle at him). 

“ Idiots !” muttered Mrs. Armour, looking round on the flushed, 
laughing faces. “Grinning idiots!” For it irritated her nerves 
to see so many people enjoying themselves in their frivolous way, 
while her own fortunes were trembling in the balance. But as she 
glanced distantly about her, she caught sight of one face which 
was neither flushed nor smiling. Claude Copley stood apart, lean- 
ing against the doorway, and looking on at the revels with a coun- 
tenance as little friendly as her own. 

She had not spoken with Claude since last evening; she had 
not even thought of him. She had no leisure to occupy her 
thoughts with so insignificant a personage as Madame Martin’s 
secretary. But at this moment he was the only being present 
whom she felt to be in sympathy with her mood. 

She glided up to him, and threw herself into a chair near the 
door. 

“You don’t appear enraptured with this hilarious scene,” she 


172 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


said, in a low voice. “Really, your uncle has most wonderful 
spirits. I suppose those persons who can amuse themselves in any 
society are to be envied.” 

“ It’s easier to stand them when you know you are to get away 
from them in a few days,” answered Claude. 

“Oh! Mr. Hughes goes away in a few days? You will miss 
him.” 

“ I shall not miss him alone. I don’t suppose you will remain 
here very long now.” 

Mrs. Armour at once concluded that Claude’s depression was 
mainly referable to the thought of parting from her. This idea 
was gratifying; and she answered, in a soft, regretful tone, that 
she believed family business would call her to London almost im- 
mediately. 

“ Well, you can scarcely mean to pretend that you are sorry to 
go,” returned Claude, looking down on her gloomily. 

“ One’s feelings may be conflicting, Mr. Copley.” 

“ By George, therc’d be no conflict in mine, if any one told me 
I was to leave the confounded hole to-night, and never set eyes 
on it again !” 

“Might not that depend on whom you were leaving behind 
you ?” said Mrs. Armour, with a pleading, upward glance. 

“ Well, at any rate, that consideration does not apply to you, 
so we need not discuss it.” 

There was a short silence. Then Claude said, “ I haven’t con- 
gratulated you yet. Everybody is talking about your brilliant 
prospects.” 

“ Everybody is talking a great deal of nonsense, I dare say. 
But, of course, I am glad to hear that my uncle is still living, and not 
sorry to hear that he is rich. But I am amused when some of the 
good folks here talk to me as if I must needs be overwhelmed 
with amazement at my uncle’s wealth, as if I had belonged all 
my life to paupers ! There has always been money among my 
mother’s family. But, really, the whole scale of these people’s 
ideas is so — ” Mrs. Armour finished her sentence with a shrug. 
Then she said, carelessly, “ By the way, what did that absurd 
man ” — turning her head towards Mr. Coney, who was standing 
in a Shakespearian attitude, with finger on his brow — “ want to 
say to you last evening?” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


m 


Claude reddened and frowned. 

“ Oh, he wanted to ask a question about — about my father’s 
family. He had got hold of a mistaken notion that — The fel- 
low has had genealogy on the brain, I think, since he took upon 
himself to hunt up Mr. Dalton’s next of kin on behalf of some 
young cad or other whom he honors with his friendship.” 

“ Take care, Mr. Copley,” said Mrs. Armour, raising her fore- 
finger. “The young cad in question must — if Mr. Coney’s infor- 
mation is correct — be a kinsman of mine. However, one does 
witness strange degringolades in the best families.” 

But, although she spoke thus lightly, she had noticed Claude’s 
odd looks and his reticence as to what had passed between him and 
Coney, and she stored them in her memory as one puts by a doc- 
ument for future reference. 

“It’s enough to give a fellow the blue devils to think of what 
this place will be next week without you,” said Claude, suddenly. 

“ I am flattered ! But neither do you intend, I suppose, to 
remain here all your life ?” 

“ Good heavens ! I think it would be but a short one if I 
did,” he answered. 

lie spoke in mere spleen and pettishness, but Mrs. Armour 
looked in his face, and for the first time noticed something in it 
which gave a melancholy significance to his words — the glassy 
brightness of the eye, the transparent pallor of the skin, the pe- 
culiar plaintive haggardness which disease gives to a young face. 

“ Oh, we shall meet in London before long, I have no doubt,” 
said Mrs. Armour, smiling, and rising from her chair, for there 
was now a general movement among the company and their tete- 
a-tete was broken up ; but as she walked away she murmured to 
herself, with a little skin-deep emotion of pity, “ Poor boy !” 

She believed he would regret her. She knew that he was the 
only creature in the Pension who would. He alone had ever ap- 
preciated her there. Poverty was a curse that made all good 
gifts of little avail. Of what advantage was it to her to be supe- 
rior in looks, in manner, in birth, to those wretched vulgarians, if 
she were compelled to wear shabbier gowns and hire a cheaper 
room than theirs ? Even her new friends, the Ketterings, although 
they had been civil, certainly, had not treated her with any of the 
distinction which she thought her due. Bah ! they were only 


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tradespeople, after all, these Ketterings ! Their money had been 
gained by buying and selling — whether wholesale or retail mat- 
tered very little. 

“ Oh, but if ever I am a rich woman they will change their note 
— and so shall //” muttered Juliet, with a vindictive flash of her 
blue eyes. 

This peculiar movement of bitterness against the Ketterings was 
aroused by beholding “ that uneducated idiot, Miss Jenks,” as she 
angrily termed that lady in her own mind, seated between Miss 
Stringer and Ida, and conversing with them in an easy and famil- 
iar style. 

Miss Jenks was certainly in great force. She did not particu- 
larly wonder to find herself the subject of special attentions from 
these ladies — Miss Jenks, indeed, like Mr. Thomas Carlyle’s canary- 
bird, was capable of but a limited quantity of wonder — but it grat- 
ified her. 

Ida positively hung on her accents, and Sally had once or twice 
to check Ida’s undisguised attempts to make Miss Jenks display 
her peculiarities of manner and character, much as she might 
have tried to make a new chimpanzee show off its tricks at the 
Zoological Gardens. 

But Miss Jenks was very willing to be drawn out. She did 
not often get such a chance of being listened to. 

“ But, of course,” said she, with that kind of abrupt plunge 
into the middle of a new subject which was an interesting feature 
in her conversation, “ you are his friends, and the pink of polite- 
ness was consequently to be expected.” 

“Whose friends?” asked Ida, privately resolving to tell Olga 
the next time her sister snubbed her for her brusquerie that she 
had been characterized as a pink of politeness. 

“ When I say his, Miss Ida Kettering, I can only mean him — 
Mr. William Hughes. For a more perfect gentleman doesn’t 
breathe, and a manner to ladies that / never saw equalled.” 

“ Oh, you’re quite an admirer of Mr. Hughes ! So am I. I 
like him very much,” said Ida. 

“ General admiration must be his due from all. But with me 
it is something more. You cannot suppose that, having been the 
object of such pleasing attentions, I could remain iusensible to 
the spell ?” 


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175 


“ What does she mean ?” whispered Ida to Sally. Whereupon 
Sally pinched her, and bade her hold her tongue. 

“ You will all miss Mr. Hughes very much when he leaves 
Monplaisir,” observed Sally, eying Miss Jenks askance. 

“ No, Miss Stringer ; there you deceive yourself. I shall not 
miss him ; for when he goes, I go.” 

“ Lord bless me !” exclaimed Sally, quite taken off her guard. 

“ Yes, Miss Stringer. I am expecting remittances from North- 
ampton at the close of the week, and shall then give Madame 
Martin the usual notice. There may have been passing clouds 
between us about an occasional washing-bill, but we part without 
unpleasantry on either side.” 

“ But,” ventured Sally, who thought the matter was getting 
beyond a joke, and began to be seriously uneasy on behalf of 
her friend, William Hughes, “ but as your home, I understood 
you to say, is at Northampton, and as Mr. Hughes is bound for 
London — ” 

“ Oh, I am not wedded to Northampton, Miss Stringer. Far 
from that. And it is not likely that I should yield to the tram- 
mels of a brother and sister-in-law, who offer a home if I like to 
stay in it, but decline to increase by any cash allowance the small 
annuity I inherited at my father’s death.” 

“ Oh !” said Sally. “ But still, if the home is a comfortable 
one — ” 

“ It is comfortable, Miss Stringer, to repletion ; and bed-linen 
fit for a pallis.” 

“ Indeed ! That must be very nice,” exclaimed Sally. Then 
she added, persuasively, “ Well, then, since you have such excel- 
lent quarters among your own family and friends, would it not 
perhaps be better for you — ” 

“ No, Miss Stringer, it w f ould not” interrupted Miss Jenks, sit- 
ting bolt upright and staring straight before her like an inexorable 
drill sergeant. “ I choose to see something of the world. I have , 
now, seen the Continent — which will ever be to me a hallowed 
spot, as the scene of my first acquaintance with our mutually 
agreeable and gifted friend — and next week I shall enter into 
London society. There is a most respectable and highly recom- 
mended establishment near Red Lion Square where they will 
board me at an extremely low figure,” 


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When Ida Kettering went away that evening, she declared that 
she preferred the entertainment at Monplaisir to any she had ever 
witnessed ; and she thanked Mr. Hughes over and over again for 
having invited her. But Sally Stringer’s mirth was dashed with 
fear. She was a woman of courageous spirit — albeit not quite 
so iron-nerved as she wished to appear, and as some of her friends 
supposed her to be — but she felt herself a mere weakling in the 
presence of Miss Jenks. 

“ Well, now,” said honest Madame Martin, as she bustled about 
the dining-room, when the strangers were gone, and all her own 
inmates, except Hughes and his nephew, had retired for the night, 
locking up the remnants of the feast, and putting out candles, and 
so on, “ I’m sure it has reussi very well, sir ; and every one was 
most content. But, dear, dear, what a break-up for Monplaisir ! 
You’ll be the greatest loss of all, sir. I don’t say it to flatter you, 
but ’tis the general feeling. And then Mrs. Armour is going, 
and Miss Jenks, and the two new messieurs, who made themselves 
very pleasant, poor things, though, between you and me and the 
post, they’re not much like gentlemen. But what would you ? 
One mustn’t cry for the moon. Ah, well, Monsieur Claude and 
me, we shall be left to console each other, eh, Monsieur Claude?” 

Claude made some jesting reply, and the good woman patted 
him encouragingly on the shoulder. She would have been will- 
ing enough to part with young Copley, for any value she set on 
his services ; but if it were a help or a kindness to Mr. Hughes 
to keep him, she would make the best of him as long as possible. 

But after William Hughes had lain down to rest that night, 
Claude came softly into the room, and, setting down his candle 
so that it should not illuminate his face, said, hesitatingly, “Un- 
cle William, may I say a word to you ?” 

“ Yes, my boy, but don’t be long about it, for I’m desperately 
sleepy.” 

Claude seated himself besiuj the bed, but spoke not a word. 

“ Well, Claude,” said his uncle. 

“ Well, I’m afraid you’ll be vexed.” 

“ I hope not, Claude. Have you got into any scrape about 
money ?” 

“ No, no ! No scrape at all. But I — I don’t think I can stay 
here when — when you’re all gone. I thought I could stand it. 






THAT WILD WHEEL. 


177 


But to-night, when I began to picture how it would be, I — it 
seemed so beastly lonely — I couldn’t — ” 

And suddenly dropping his face on his hands, he burst into 
tears. 

“ Claude !” cried William, starting up, and stretching out his 
hand to take the young man’s in his own, “ For God’s sake, Claude, 
what is the matter? Are you ill?” 

“ No — yes ; I think I am ill — or, at least, not ill, but nervous. 

I get so strangely hipped sometimes, down into my boots ! And 
then again I’m all right. I believe it is purely nervous. This 
place is so depressing in damp weather. Uncle William, if you’ll 
let me come home, I’ll find some work to do in London. I don’t 
care what it is. I will buckle to ; indeed I will !” 

Thus he pleaded, almost as a child might plead, all the while 
twisting and untwisting his handkerchief, damp with tears. 

“ Don’t speak so, my boy, as if I were an ogre ! And, for 
mercy’s sake, don’t fret in this way. Of course you shall come 
home if you are unhappy or unwell here. But I had no idea — 
When I first arrived you seemed to fancy — ” 

“ Ah ! that was because I was determined to do my best, and 
put a good face on the matter,” said Claude, instantly elated by 
those words, “ Of course you shall come home,” and beginning 
to make out a good case for himself — partly for the satisfaction 
of his sensitive self-love, and partly that he might not be at too 
great a disadvantage with his uncle. “ I knew you wished me 
to stay, and I made a strong effort. Even Barbara must allow 
that I did, although Barbara is always hard on me. But latterly 
I have been convinced that this climate is really injuring my 
health. And, after all, it can’t be so difficult to find something 
for me to do in London. You know a good many people. Per- 
haps that fellow Coney could recommend me to some good house 
of business. He might not be sorry to introduce some one a 
little above the level of his usual associates.* I suppose education 
goes for something, even in the city ?” 

“ We will see. We will do our best,” said William, with pa- 
tient gravity. “ Go to sleep now, Claude ; and remember our 
first thought must always be for Aunt Judith and your sister. 
Our first duty is to take what care we can of them.” 

“ Never fear !” answered Claude, confidently. “ In fact, I dare 
12 


178 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


say my coming home may be the best thing that could happen 
for them ; for, of course, j»y salary will make a difference to the 
housekeeping, and I shall be at hand to look after Barbara when 
you are away. Good-night, Uncle William. Then will you 
speak to Madame Martin in the morning? I’m sorry I made a 
fool of myself by breaking down. But it was purely nervous. 
Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, Claude. God bless you !” 

Then William Hughes, having watched his nephew out of the 
room, bent his head and shoulders a little with the action of one 
who feels a weight there. And so remained for a long time, sit- 
ting up in his bed in a deep meditation. But the articulate 
thought in his mind as he at length lay down to sleep was, “ Poor 
lad ! He is far from strong, and he has been used to be petted. 
Oh, we shall manage very well. I’ll take him back with me. 
And anyway” — breaking into a tender smile — “ Aunt Judith will 
be happy. She loves him so, poor dear soul !” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

That Sunday-evening visit of which Barbara wrote to her 
uncle was only the first of several others paid by Mr. Hofmann 
to the Hugheses’ poor little dwelling. 

As he walked up to the door on the following Sunday he was 
devising some pretext for this second call, since he could not 
always have a letter in praise of Mr. William Hughes in his 
pocket. But the moment he found himself in the ladies’ pres- 
ence he became conscious that excuses would be superfluous and 
impertinent, and he did not speak them. Why, indeed, should 
any excuses be needed* for doing what was received so simply ? 

“ Fritz, thou art but a Philistine,” said he to himself ; “ why 
shouldst thou think it needful to account for spending an hour 
with these ladies in their neat little parlor — thou who hast so 
often suffered thyself to be jammed with a frivolous crowd of 
strangers on the staircase of some rich woman’s house, as though 
that were the most rational and natural thing in the world? 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


179 


How the vulgar, stupid conventionalities cling to one like a 
burr !” 

Whatever faults Fritz Hofmann’s immediate family might lay 
to his charge, a too great servitude to conventionality would as- 
suredly not be included among them. He was qualified to prac- 
tise as an advocate, but he had done very little in that way. 
Then four or five years ago his father had urged him to accept 
an excellent bureaucratic post in Berlin, and he had done so ; but 
neither to this line of life was he able to accommodate himself. 
The department to which he was attached was at that time under 
the immediate control of a statesman as notoriously intolerant 
of scrupulous subordinates as Napoleon Bonaparte was of ideo- 
logues. Fritz Hofmann’s principles, as well as his theories, clashed 
at every turn with the duties required of him, and he gave up his 
post. 

His family was much chagrined by this step, for the social status 
conferred by such an appointment as Fritz had held was an ob- 
ject of ambition among many of the higher bourgeoisie ; and, be- 
sides, Fritz’s reasons for resigning it were almost as objectionable 
as the resignation itself. But he was his own master. His father 
died about this time, and while his elder brother inherited and 
chose to carry on the flourishing commercial business of the house, 
Fritz was at liberty to do what he pleased with the handsome 
independence that fell to his share. 

Fritz was of a philosophic turn of mind, and, having the means 
of living without work, he indulged himself in publishing one or 
two short pamphlets, containing various political and social specu- 
lations of a liberal cast, worked out with that admirable serenity 
of view which is imparted by the certainty of one’s daily dinner. 
These, being anonymous, were held by his family to be harmless. 
But Fritz made no secret of his intention to engage in the writ- 
ing of a substantial work which should bear his name, and which 
should be an effort in the direction of comparative sociology. 

His mother had feared that the declaration of Fritz’s doctrines 
and intentions might offend her wealthy bachelor brother, Arthur 
Maddison ; for, unfortunately, Fritz spoke disdainfully of many 
things that Mr. Maddison had been accustomed all his life to 
value. This danger was, however, averted. Fritz refrained from 
discussing his theories with Mr. Maddison, for the simple reason 


180 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


that he considered Mr. Maddison incapable of understanding them ; 
and thus no serious collision of opinion had ever taken place 
between them, and it was understood in the family that Fritz was 
to be his uncle’s heir. 

But it was well for the continuance of good relations between 
them that they did not see very much of each other. For Mr. 
Maddison was of a captious, arrogant temper, and loved to assert 
his importance by various petty acts of tyranny. Now, Fritz could 
be coaxed into doing many things, but morally coerced into none. 

In one of her recent letters to him, Mrs. Hofmann, alluding to 
his frequent and eulogistic mentions of Miss Copley, ventured on 
a playfully worded warning to him to take care of his heart; for 
this young teacher of music seemed to be a dangerously fascinating 
person. And Fritz, who had always been in the habit of writing 
fully and freely to his mother, answered these hints at some 
length. 

“ You know,” he wrote, “ that I am no Orlando Furioso. And, 
moreover, I will confess to you what I have never said to any one 
else: namely, that while I believe myself to be not wanting in 
affection, and to have my share of human passions, I am yet 
intimately convinced that the woman does not live for whom I 
could break my heart. I shall not marry a woman whom I do 
not love. But I should — if I know myself at all — speedily cease 
to love a woman who did not reciprocate my regard. And, more- 
over, I shall fall in love, if I do fall in love, with my eyes wide open. 
No doubt this is terribly prosaic, and unchivalrous, and anti- 
romantic, and so forth ; but it is the fact. Pray do not publish it, 
however ; for I believe such a confession would make me sadly 
unpopular with your sex, and might spoil all your chances of 
having that pearl of daughters-in-law whom I intend some day to 
present to you. 

“ As to Miss Copley — you know one of my heresies is that the 
knitting of stockings, although useful and laudable, should not 
absorb all the intellectual powers that women possess — I fully be- 
lieve in quite as liberal proportion as nous autres ; and Miss Copley 
is a delightful and cultivated woman. (Please do not conjure up 
a picture of what used to be called in your young days a blue- 
stocking ! Believe me, the creature is as obsolete as the phrase.) 
I dare say I find her quick intelligence and varied information 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


181 


all the more delightful because they are housed in a very graceful 
feminine person. Why not ? But I am not the least bit in love 
with her, Mutterchen! 

“ No ; if I am cherishing the first spark of a, grande passion for 
any one, I think it is for the aunt, old Miss Judith Hughes, who 
is the quaintest and prettiest old lady ever seen out of a picture. 
Her stories of old times in Marypool amuse me extremely ; and 
they are full of valuable details for the student of social history. 

“ I wonder that I have never heard Uncle Arthur mention this 
family. And I wonder still more that — as you told me in one of 
your letters — he should have allowed his engagement with Miss 
Olive Hughes to be broken off ! I am told that her daughter is 
very like her. I fancy the aforesaid Miss Judith owes Uncle 
Arthur a little grudge to this day. Not that she ever says one 
word against him ; she has too much dignity for that, I assure 
you ! But if I chance to mention his name, her black eyes send 
out a flash of that Celtic fire she likes to boast of; and she always 
turns the conversation.” 

Now this letter by no means reassured Mrs. Hofmann. What 
mother would it have reassured? It was all very fine for Fritz to 
talk in that way about falling in love with his eyes open, and to 
set up for being so cool and philosophical ; but what chance bad a 
philosopher of nine-and-twenty against a pretty, clever, attractive 
girl who wanted to catch him ? Besides, without thinking harsh- 
ly of the young lady, was he acting quite fairly by her? Her 
Fritz was a man whom any girl might fall disinterestedly in love 
with. And that her Fritz, with all his advantages, should throw 
himself away on a little nobody who went out giving lessons by 
the hour, and whose family had been publicly ruined and dis- 
graced to the knowledge of all Marypool, was a prospect too pain- 
ful to contemplate. 

If the Ketterings had been in town, Mrs. Hofmann would have 
written to Gertrude, and begged her to ascertain, if possible, the 
real state of the case. But they were all away in Switzerland. 
It was very provoking ! In her anxiety — for the more she thought 
the more she was persuaded that it ivas not safe for Fritz to con- 
tinue frequenting that house — Augusta Hofmann did a very in- 
judicious thing — she confided her uneasiness to her brother 
Arthur, newly arrived in Hamburg on a visit to her. 


182 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


The effect of her communication surprised her. She had 
never seen Arthur so angry. She knew nothing of the letter 
that Judith Hughes had written to him years ago. It was not 
one which he would have found it pleasant to exhibit; and he 
had kept as profound a silence about it as its writer had. But 
every word of that letter rankled in his memory, even after seven- 
and-twenty years. It had wounded him in the most sensitive 
point; it had pierced his self-love. It was not merely the ex- 
plosion of an angry temper, and the cry of a woman sorely tried. 
The sting of the matter was, that it too keenly laid bare his own 
weaknesses, his own motives, and his own selfishness, and deprived 
him for a long time of the comfort of thinking himself a noble- 
minded young fellow who sacrificed his happiness to his princi- 
ples. 

He had grown tougher since those days, and cared less for the 
estimate of his fellow-creatures ; but he had neither forgotten nor 
forgiven that letter. 

At first he flew into a kind of snarling, smouldering rage ; 
and threatened to write, commanding Fritz, on pain of his sover- 
eign displeasure, immediately to cease all intimacy with a person 
whom he (Mr. Arthur Maddison) had the strongest reason to 
dislike and mistrust. 

But Mrs. Hofmann knew her son well enough to be sure 
that no such high-handed proceeding would avail with Fritz ; and 
she implored her brother not to adopt it. She even ventured — 
for she was a kind and a just woman at heart — to put in a plea for 
the Hugheses. “You know, Arthur,” she said, “that whatever 
might be the truth about her sister — I was married, and away 
from England, and I never knew the particulars — we always 
thought that poor little Olive was blameless.” 

“Olive! Who is blaming Olive? Olive is dead. But that 
insolent old harridan — she is at the bottom of this mischief. 
Understand me, Augusta, I will keep no terms with Fritz if he 
persists in visiting at the house of Miss Judith Hughes.” 

Then Mrs. Hofmann, being fluttered and frightened, did a 
second injudicious thing — she wrote to Fritz, begging him to break 
off his acquaintance with the Hughes family, and assigning as her 
reason that she had recently learned that Miss Judith Hughes had 
behaved very badly and violently to her brother years ago. She did 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


183 


not, of course, attempt to dictate to her son as to his choice of 
friends. That would be absurd. And, indeed, he had always 
maintained a very high standard in his friendships. But still — 
since Fritz did not profess any special attachment for these peo- 
ple — might it not be well to draw off from them a little, until he 
knew what his Uncle Arthur might have to say about them? 
And she ended by an earnest assurance that she wrote quite by 
her own impulse, and even without her brother’s knowledge. 

“Yes, yes, Mutterchen ,” said Fritz, perusing this letter with 
knitted brow. “You may be writing without his knowledge, but 
I can see his cloven hoof printed plain enough on the paper. It 
is just as well that he and I should join issue about the matter. 
He must be made to understand, sooner or later, that, not only I 
decline to sell my soul for the hope of his money, but I will not 
barter one passing thought, one lightest caprice of it. What lies 
he must have told to make my dear, good mother propose that I 
should insult these ladies by suddenly dropping their acquaintance ! 
But she is jealous for me, poor, dear Mutterchen! She thinks 
Miss Copley, like every other unmarried woman who beholds my 
perfections, must be ready to compass heaven and earth to become 
my wife. Whereas I will undertake to swear — and I am neither 
a green boy nor a fool — that Miss Copley has never for one 
moment deigned to consider the subject ; and that whom I 
marry, or whether I marry, is a matter of absolute indifference 
to her.” 

Then the thought arose in his mind that it would be very 
agreeable to be an object of interest to Miss Copley. There was 
something so tender and sweet in her eyes when she looked at her 
old aunt ! and, above all, how she lighted up at any appreciative 
mention of William Hughes ! There was a warm glow to be seen 
sometimes in that alabaster lamp ; and the man might be proud 
and happy who should be able to evoke it. 

The very next afternoon, which was a Wednesday, Fritz went 
to Lady Lambton’s, and sat watching Barbara as she patiently 
played through my lady’s accompaniments, and the difference be- 
tween the two women struck him in quite a new way. 

He had once or twice thought it pretty to see them together — 
a sort of Rosalind and Celia contrast: Amy so full of color, 
vivacity, and dash ! Barbara so dove-like and gentle ! — but to- 


184 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


day ! Why, where could his eyes have been ? Miss Copley’s 
neighborhood made the other woman look positively vulgar — 
like a rouged and spangled figurante brought out suddenly into 
the daylight. And then Amy was so desperate a flirt, so un- 
scrupulously greedy of admiration ! 

Poor Amy ! It must be owned that the gentleman was rather 
hard upon her, seeing that he had done his full share of flirting 
with her ladyship ; and had rather a gift that way, to say the 
truth. But he had no compunction on this score. Lady Lamb- 
ton, he considered, was thoroughly well able to take care of her- 
self ; and there was no question of hearts on either side. 

Could the case have been put to Amy in the Palace of Truth, 
she must have answered that there were other questions besides 
hearts — settlements, for instance — as to which a woman might 
suffer much bitterness of disappointment ; and that, for her part, 
she suspected that poets and playwrights and novelists had 
greatly exaggerated the vulnerability of hearts in general. 

But the case was not put to her either in the Palace of Truth 
or the less crystalline atmosphere of her daily life in London. 

That Mr. Hofmann came to her house on Wednesday afternoon 
was sufficient proof that she attracted him. But although she 
liked him very much, and had even thought it possible that she 
might marry him, she had also thought it possible that she 
might marry better. She began to have her doubts as to wheth- 
er Mr. Fritz would assist her to make that brilliant figure in the 
world as a woman of intellect which was the main object of her 
ambition. Fritz talked, indeed, about his high estimate of 
woman’s mental gifts, and expressed contempt for a narrow and 
illiberal view of the sex. But Lady Lambton had observed that 
whenever she tried to talk to him about his philosophical studies, 
lie either broke off into jest and banter, or resolutely changed the 
conversation. 

And, moreover, the pleasure of astonishing him by her power 
of dramatic singing had scarcely equalled her anticipations. After 
all, Mr. Hofmann was very insensible to music. Ida Kettering 
had been right there. Neither had he entered into the descrip- 
tion of her fluctuating feelings, as to the question of writing or 
not writing to Mr. Dalton, in a thoroughly sympathetic spirit. 
When she had asked him whether he would advise her to write, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


185 


lie had merely replied, as we know, that he didn’t know why she 
shouldn’t ; and this bald, uninteresting utterance was not due mere- 
ly to the interruption of Miss Copley’s entrance on that occasion, 
for when she consulted him a second time he made answer that 
he scarcely thought a letter from her would do much good ; but, 
on the other hand, it was not likely to do any harm. 

When she first spoke to him, Lady Lambton had, in fact, al- 
ready written more than one rough draught of the letter to Dal- 
ton ; and since then she had polished it into an effusion which 
she regarded with sincere admiration — even thinking that possi- 
bly Literature might be her vocation after all, if once that initial 
difficulty of not knowing what to say could be overcome ; for here, 
with the subject ready-made to her hand, with what felicity of ex- 
pression she had treated it ! 

But then it suddenly occurred to her that she did not know 
how to address her letter when it should be copied fair. Various 
possibilities of finding this out presented themselves to her mind, 
but were successively rejected. She was averse from applying to 
the Hopkinses direct ; but at length a happy thought flashed on 
her: she remembered hearing Mr. Perikles Rhodonides speak at the 
Ketterings’ dinner-table of some young clerks in his father’s house 
of business who were intimate with Mortimer Hopkins, and en- 
tirely in his confidence about Mr. Christopher Dalton. Amy at 
once sat down and wrote a charming little note to Mr. Perikles 
Rhodonides, begging him to do her the favor of calling on her to 
speak a word on business. 

Her imagination was very busy with this matter on the Wednes- 
day when Fritz appeared in her drawing-room, and sat watching 
her and her repetiteuse with the thoughts that have been record- 
ed; and when, at the end of the practising, he rose to take his 
leave, my lady gave him her hand with a look full of dreamy 
sweetness — she was mentally rehearsing a telling phrase with 
which she would presently explain the reason of her note to Mr. 
Rhodonides, but gave him no encouraging hint to remain. 

So Fritz and Miss Copley left the house together. 


186 


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CHAPTER XXIV. 

Their tete-a-tete did not endure very long ; for when they 
reached the Brompton Road, at no great distance from Lady 
Lambton’s house, Barbara got into an omnibus that was to carry 
her towards her home ; and Fritz, fearing that an offer to accom- 
pany her might be deemed intrusive, bade her farewell. 

When the vehicle which carried her was out of sight, he hailed 
a hansom and drove to his lodgings in Jermyn Street, where he 
made some notes for the prefatory chapter to that work on soci- 
ology which he fully intended to write some day, but of which 
he was evolving the general plan in a large and leisurely, fashion 
only possible to a man whom neither poverty, publisher, nor 
printer’s devil has power to whip and spur; and then he steadily 
read German metaphysics until close upon dinner-time. 

Finally, he rose, pushed away his book and papers, and looked 
at his watch with a certain air of triumph. “ No bones broken !” 
he said to himself. “ I had an odd sort of feeling when I saw 
that sweet, pale face looking at me from among the frowsy peo- 
ple in the omnibus ; but I have been able to read all those pages 
of Hegel straight on end — in spite of what Schopenhauer calls 
the ‘ llegel-jargon ’ — without once losing the thread. I wonder 
if any fellow is really and genuinely mastered at the beginning of 
a passion he can’t resist. At the beginning , for if one once be- 
gins to slide — ! Aud I wonder how it feels. But, absit omen , I 
don’t think I want to know by experience.” 

Then, being fortified in his conviction that he should fall in 
love — if he fell in love — with his eyes wide open, he proceeded 
to consider whether he could better prove his unclouded power of 
judgment than by falling in love with Barbara Copley. 

Barbara, meanwhile, bestowed none of her thoughts on Mr. 
Frederick Hofmann, unless it were indirectly and in connection 
with a little item of ill news which she had to carry to Aunt 
Judith. Lady Lambton had intimated to her that day that she 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


187 


should not be able to continue the practisings (Lady Lambton 
never by any chance called them lessons) for which Miss Copley’s 
services had been required. Barbara was not unprepared for the 
announcement, but it was depressing, nevertheless. Moreover, al- 
though Lady Lambton, at the beginning of the engagement be- 
tween them, had spoken confidently of doing great things for her 
by her patronage and recommendation, nothing had come of it. 
Barbara must make an effort to find some other employment for 
the hours left vacant by Lady Lambton’s dismissal of her. She 
had also lost — at any rate, for several months — her pupils Olga 
and Ida Kettering. And although all these losses put together 
amounted to but a very few pounds, yet the Hugheses were so 
poor that those few pounds represented no inconsiderable portion 
of their budget. And then the winter was close at hand — always 
a hard and costly season in such households as theirs. And, on 
all accounts, it behooved her to exert herself. 

And besides all these considerations, there was a little cloud 
on Barbara’s secret soul which she could speak of to no one. 

Her uncle had repeated to her in one of his letters the news 
given by Mrs. Armour about Gilbert Hazel. And whenever she 
had thought of it since — and she thought of it very often when 
she was alone — there had come upon her a little dull, aching sen- 
sation of disappointment. He was in his own country again; had 
been here for half a year — “sailed tor England six months ago” 
were the very words in her uncle’s letter; she knew them accu- 
rately — and yet no letter, no message, no sign had come from him 
to the friends for whom he had professed such warm regard in 
the Kentish farm-house only two years ago. There had been 
nothing like a regular correspondence between him and William 
Hughes ; but he had written to announce his arrival in India ; and 
last Christmas he had sent them a card of greeting, and one or 
two Calcutta newspapers had come from him from time to time. 
He had spoken so confidentially with her uncle about his misfort- 
unes and his prospects, the two men had found each other’s com- 
panionship so congenial, despite the difference in their years, that 
it was surely no exaggerated pretension to expect that Hazel 
would naturally remember William Hughes, and naturally give 
him some account of the change in his way of life, and of his 
reasons for making it. Perhaps he had forgotten them. Or per- 


188 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


haps she was foolish in expecting him to write. She was, she 
knew, inexperienced, and ignorant of the world. But when Uncle 
William came home, and spoke of him — Uncle William would 
surely speak of him — she would see in a moment, by looking in 
his face, she would hear in the very tone of his voice, if he were 
surprised or hurt by Mr. Hazel’s silence. 

When Barbara reached her own door, on arriving from Lady 
Lambton’s, she discovered, with a start like one awakened out of 
a dream, that she had been meditating on this theme nearly all 
the way home, instead of arranging beforehand what comfortable 
words she could devise to console Aunt Judith for the news about 
Lady Lambton. For Aunt Judith, though brave and devoted in 
the face of great misfortunes, had a rather trying way of taking 
small ones ; being apt to turn them, and trust them, and hold 
them up to the light, and examine them minutely in every direc- 
tion, not with any remedial intentions, but solely, as it should 
seem, for the purpose of demonstrating how entirely they were 
past mending. However, Aunt Judith must be told, and Barbara, 
as she hung up the cloak and hat on the accustomed peg, pre- 
pared to put as cheerful a face on the matter as possible. 

But to her surprise she found Aunt Judith so full of excite- 
ment about another subject as to have little attention to spare for 
anything else. As soon as she heard Barbara’s footstep she called 
out eagerly, in her piping high notes, 

“Barbara! Barbara! Come here. Why don’t you come in? 
What are you fidgeting about for in the passage? Here is a let- 
ter from your uncle, with such news in it !” 

“ News !” echoed Barbara, suddenly standing still on the very 
threshold of the parlor. 

“Yes, indeed; news about Claude.” 

“ Oh !” murmured Barbara, in a low voice that sounded faint 
and far away. “ News of my brother!” 

“To be sure. Whom else are we likely to get news of? Or 
to care for news of — except, of course, William? But he keeps 
us informed about himself pretty regularly.” 

Then she told her niece that William’s return was fixed for the 
following week, and that Claude was about to leave Madame Mar- 
tin altogether, and was coming home with him, and handed her 
the letter to read. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


189 


Barbara’s way of receiving this announcement provoked the old 
lady, who, first of all, scolded her for being so cool and indiffer- 
ent at the prospect of seeing her brother again, and then pro- 
ceeded to argue that Claude’s return would be not only good for 
himself — as taking him out of a position far below his merits — 
but eventually very helpful to the family exchequer, since he was 
sure to find employment before long, and winding up, as usual, 
by exclaiming, 

“ And if the poor dear boy were to be at home idle for a few 
weeks, I’m sure we could very well afford to keep him !” 

All this special pleading had, at all events, the effect of leaving 
her no excuse for fretting over Barbara’s news when she recovered 
her equanimity sufficiently to listen to it. Nevertheless, she agreed 
with her grandniece that some effort must be made to fill up the 
vacant hours; and they both set themselves to consider whom 
they could apply to. 

“ Don’t you think I might leave a card with Mrs. Green ?” sug- 
gested Barbara. “ She gives lessons in schools, and so on, and 
she is, I think, very friendly-minded towards us.” 

Miss Hughes turned her head aside as if to avoid the sight of 
something distasteful, and said, with a grimace of discontent, 

“ Mrs. Green, child, is so common ! Such a mere Cockney vul- 
garian ! And I did hope you were emerging from all that sort of 
thing into a different connection altogether.” Then after a min- 
ute’s silence she sighed, and said, “But if the woman can help 
you, you ought to work for her — for — all sakes. Duty is duty ; 
and I’ll write a line to Mrs. Budge” — Mrs. Budge was the baker’s 
wife, who had withdrawn her two little girls from Miss Hughes’s 
day school, in consequence of some fancied slight sustained by 
them from one of their schoolfellows — “and ask her to send back 
Jane and Caroline. Larcher declares she will jump at the chance 
of doing so ; and as for giving way — of course it would be absurd 
to stand on one’s dignity with such people as Mrs. Budge.” 

Saturday afternoon was the time of greatest leisure for Barbara, 
and on Saturday afternoon she knew Mrs. Green to be usually dis- 
engaged also. Barbara therefore betook herself on the following 
Saturday to the house where Mrs. Green lived, intending at the 
same time to look into her uncle’s studio, whereof Mrs. Green 
had been intrusted with the key, and to cause a fire to be lighted 


190 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


in the little stove, and the place to be set in order against his 
return. 

Mrs. Green was not at home, but the charwoman who opened 
the door to Barbara, and knew her by sight, assured her that the 
lady would be back very soon, and that meanwhile, if she wanted 
the key of her uncle Mr. Hughes’s studio, it was hanging on a 
nail behind Mrs. Green’s bedroom door, and could be produced 
“ in a jiffy.” 

Accordingly, Barbara went into her uncle’s studio, and, as it 
was now growing dusk, lighted a lamp that stood there and looked 
about her. The room was not prepared for such festivities as on 
the occasion of the memorable conversazione. There was always 
a few dropped in of a Saturday, said the charwoman, but they 
wouldn’t use the studio at all, most likely. 

“ But I see you have filled the lamp, Mrs. Collins,” said Bar- 
bara. 

Mrs. Collins had a short, shapeless figure, muffled in a dirty 
woollen shawl tied behind, and a very long and wide canvas apron, 
also tied behind at the waist, and again at about the level of the 
calves of her legs, with little tape strings. She had a broad, 
freckled face, and large, protuberant, watery blue eyes, which she 
rolled about when she talked, with a play of feature so totally dis- 
connected from the significance of what she was saying that one 
might have supposed her to be using somebody else’s face, and to 
have not quite mastered the mechanism. The only other remark- 
able thing about her conversation was its being devoid of full 
stops, so that her listener’s ear was fain to supply those marks of 
punctuation even as the eye of one who reads Arabic must take 
certain vowel sounds for granted. 

“ Oh, as to the lamp, Miss Copley, filling of it ain’t no trouble, 
and it’s as well to be ready ; not that I should spare myself if it 
was, though honly a pore widow ; and I rejice to hear of Mr. 
’Ughcs’s coming back ; for a pleasant way, and asking after your 
’ealtb, is doubtless treasure laid up on ’igh ; and everybody can’t 
command their pecun’ary circumstances to the extent of ’alf a 
crown as compensation for swearing at you, fit to make the roof 
fall down in judgment, if you only left the pail on the stairs one 
minute, whilst you went to fetch your dinner beer.” 

“ Dear me !” said Barbara. “ People shouldn’t swear at you. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


191 


But don’t you think leaving a pail on the stairs rather dangerous, 
Mrs. Collins?” 

“ Yes, miss; when the two-pair-front kicks it from top to bot- 
tom, raging and using the language of a heathen cannibal, I do” 

Barbara averted further discussion of this point — and possibly, 
also, further revelations of the violent character of the two-pair- 
front, imperfectly mitigated by lucid intervals of half-crowns — by 
giving some directions about the cleaning of her uncle’s studio. 

She was standing with the lamp raised above her head, looking 
at some rough water-color studies pinned against the wall, and de- 
bating whether she had not better put them away in safety before 
Mrs. Collins should begin her cleaning operations, when she heard 
a voice very near her saying, “ Charming thing that, indeed ! I 
should say that for handling, and — and — what you may call really 
handling , you know, it is a gem.” 

Barbara, turning round as she set down the lamp on the table, 
found herself face to face with Mr. Mortimer Hopkins. 

“ Pray, pardon the intrusion, Miss Copley,” he said, beginning 
to speak in a flurried manner — for Barbara’s face and Barbara’s 
bow, although both were perfectly gentle, had somehow apprised 
him that he had taken a liberty. “ I hope you’ll excuse me. The 
fact is, I — seeing the door open, and being on my way to Mrs. 
Green’s, I — I do hope you’ll forgive me !” 

He said it so earnestly that Barbara at once reassured him by a 
kind smile and a word or two of greeting, telling him at the same 
time that she also was going to see Mrs. Green. She then desired 
Mrs. Collins to put out the lamp, and lock the door ; and as they 
all three came out upon the landing together, they beheld Mrs. 
Green putting a latch-key into her own door. 

“ La !” she exclaimed. “ I declare it’s Miss Copley and Mr. 
Mortimer Hopkins ! Why, who’d have thought of seeing you 
two here together ? This is a pleasant surprise !” 

Whereupon Mortimer, being apprehensive lest Miss Copley 
should be offended at this familiar coupling of their names to- 
gether, hastened to explain that he had only just looked in to 
bring a message from Ted (Ted being his crony, young Green) ; 
that, seeing the door of Mr. Hughes’s studio open, he had vent- 
ured to enter; that he hadn’t been there a minute, and so on. 

We are aware, on his own authority, that Mr. Mortimer Hop- 


192 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


kins held Miss Copley to be “ a perfect lady and that this con- 
stituted a powerful attraction in his eyes may be inferred from 
his confidences to Messieurs Green and Toller. Nevertheless, this 
same attribute of perfect ladyhood tended to make him uncom- 
fortably nervous in Miss Copley’s presence, and caused him to 
suffer many misgivings as to the propriety and good taste of his 
own behavior — points upon which he had very seldom been in 
doubt all his life before. 

When they entered Mrs. Green’s apartment, the good-natured 
little flower-painter bustled about to get ready a cup of tea, which 
Barbara at first declined, saying that she could not remain long, 
and that her visit was a purely selfish and business one. 

“ Selfish ! I’m sure it ain’t. Business it may be,” said Mrs. 
Green. And she pressed Barbara so heartily to remove her cloak, 
and to drink just one cup of nice hot tea, which would be ready 
in a few minutes, that the girl felt it would hurt her to refuse any 
longer. 

“ Now that’s friendly,” said Mrs. Green. “ We can talk a great 
deal more comfortably so. Miss Hughes won’t be uneasy. She 
knows where you are, of course. And if you want an escort by 
and by — Tottenham Court Road not being exactly an agreeable 
locality for a young lady alone on a Saturday evening — I’m sure 
Mr. Mortimer Hopkins here will see you into a ’bus.” 

Mortimer, upon this, began to declare that nothing could make 
him more proud, more — he was about to say more blessed. But, 
fearing that might be a little too strong at the present stage of 
affairs,, he substituted the miserably inadequate statement that, of 
course, he should be very happy if Miss Copley had no objections. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Prompted by his newly awakened diffidence — it was by no 
means excessive, nor at all likely to quench his spirits disadvanta- 
geously — Mr. Mortimer Hopkins offered to withdraw for a quarter 
of an hour and leave the ladies alone, since Miss Copley said she 
had some business to speak of. But Barbara assured him that 
she did not at all wish that. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


193 


“Pray do not go away on ray account,” she said. “The first 
thing I have to say to Mrs. Green I believe you know already : my 
uncle will return to London next week. And the second,” she 
added, with a little smile, “is of a nature that cannot be known. 
It is simply that I want more pupils, and have come to ask Mrs. 
Green to mention my name if she should have the opportunity of 
recommending a teacher. I teach music chiefly. But I also give 
lessons in French and Italian.” 

She did not mention drawing — in which she was thoroughly 
proficient — lest she might interfere with Mrs. Green’s employ- 
ment. But the sharp little woman noticed the omission and sup- 
plied it, observing that her teaching was confined to flower and 
fan painting. 

“ But, dear me, as to lessons in general, my dear Miss Copley — 
lessons are a drug in the market. Mind, I know very well that 
your lessons would be much superior to the common run ; but 
what’s the good of that, when the people who want the lessons — 
at any rate, in my connection — don’t know it ? They’re only sure 
of one thing — the price. And, as far as my experience goes, 
there’s no medium between charging too much and too little. 
When you rise to a guinea for half an hour, it don’t hurt you to 
give your lesson badly; but when you sink to eighteen pence, it 
don’t much help you to give it well. However, I don’t want to 
be a Job’s comforter; and, besides, you and Miss Hughes have 
your own experiences, of course. And you may depend on my 
doing all I can, Miss Copley, with pride and pleasure.” 

Over the tea-table Mr. Mortimer Hopkins began to descant on 
the gentility and importance of his mother’s family connections, 
among whom he didn’t forget to include my Lady Lambton, and 
ended, of course, with a reference to the millionnaire who, like a 
burning-glass, was attracting all these scattered rays into one 
focus. Mrs. Green — perhaps because she had heard it all before ; 
perhaps because she declined to encourage vainglory ; perhaps 
because even her slight hold on the hem of Art’s garment had 
given her strength to stand more upright before the Golden Calf 
than her neighbors, and to recognize the beauty and value of sun- 
dry things that are not appraised in the market-place ; in a word, 
for these or some other reasons — gave him little encouragement, 
and manifested but a tepid interest in this talk, 

13 


194 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


But when the blissful moment arrived when he was privileged 
to escort Miss Copley through the crowds in Tottenham Court 
Road towards Oxford Street, he returned to the subject, believ- 
ing it to be calculated to raise her estimate of himself and his 
position. He told her that his father had recently received let- 
ters from Mr. Coney, narrating how he had chanced to come 
across one of the two surviving daughters of Dr. Kirby, in Switz- 
erland ; and how this lady and her sister were really Mr. Christo- 
pher Dalton’s nearest blood relations, coming in that respect even 
before himself (Mortimer), although, as lie took care to point out, 
he had the advantage of being the grandson of Mrs. Dalton’s 
favorite sister; while between Mr. Dalton and the Kirbys there 
had been a violent and never-healed quarrel. 

Barbara, as she listened, thought how strange it was that cir- 
cumstances of late should so often have brought to her ears the 
names of people connected with the old, sad story that had 
blighted her mother’s family. But her main anxiety was lest her 
uncle should be distressed by any casual and unexpected word. 
She could not request this young man by her side not to mention 
Christopher Dalton in Mr. Hughes’s hearing, being, of course, un- 
able to give him any adequate reason for such a prohibition. And, 
moreover, an unskilful touch might set many painful chords jar- 
ring that now were silent. At length she thought she might vent- 
ure to ask a simple question, put with as much indifference as. 
she could assume, and she inquired of Mortimer whether he knew 
if her uncle had ever chanced to hear of the rich man who seemed 
to interest so many persons. 

“ Of Mr. Dalton, do you mean, Miss Copley ? Oh, certainly. I 
remember one evening, at my own rooms, where I was having 
what it were, perhaps, presumptuous to term a ■party , rather let 
me say a slight symposium in costoom — I recollect very well on 
that occasion that Coney started the subject. In fact, I believe 
that, next to the Swan, Mr. Dalton is Coney’s chief subject. 
There’s a sing’lar mixture of the practical and the poetical in 
Coney, Miss Copley. But I’m wrong to say ‘ a mixture,’ for he 
keeps them separate, and applies them as occasion warrants — turn 
and turn about.” 

So, then, her uncle had heard some of the talk about this man, 
and knew that he was still living, and had grown wealthy. Well, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


195 


she was glad he had heard of it, for he was now safe from the 
shock of a surprise. 

“ Besides, Miss Copley,” Mortimer went on, after a minute’s 
reflection, “ if Mr. Hughes hadn’t heard of him before, he must 
now, for Mrs. Armour — that’s the name of Dr. Kirby’s daughter — 
is staying in the same boarding-house with him, and the boarders 
are all ringing with Mr. Dalton, if I may be allowed the expres- 
sion ; and Mrs. Armour is a great chum — friend of your brother’s, 
Coney says. They haven’t mentioned about it in their letters — 
Mr. Hughes or your brother?” he asked, glancing at her rather 
curiously. 

“ No.” 

“ Oh !” 

They had now reached Oxford Street, but, after waiting some 
time, were unable to find a place in any omnibus that would take 
Barbara towards her destination, although every vehicle rolling 
in the other direction had space and to spare. And Barbara at 
length decided, the evening being fair, to walk on westward. 
“ Good-evening, and thank you,” she said. 

Mortimer lifted his hat and put out his hand, and drew it back 
as if he hadn’t meant it when he saw she did not offer hers, and 
paused and stammered, and then spoke in a kind of sudden hur- 
ry, pouring out his words confusedly — as one may see a liquid, 
long vainly coaxed to flow from a narrow-necked vessel, all at once 
gurgle forth with perverse splutterings. 

“ If — you — wouldn’t — mind, Miss Mopley — Copley, of course, 
I mean — having business in your direction, if you would allow me 
to continue alongside of you — but if in any way objectionable, I 
will cross over to the opposite side without a murmur!” 

“ I can, of course, have no objection, since you are coming this 
way in any case,” answered Barbara, politely, but coldly. 

(Mortimer observed afterwards to young Green that there was 
at times the marble grace of the patrician about Miss Copley 
which froze and yet enchanted, like Diana’s kiss. But this was 
spoken in a glow of confidence and hot toddy.) 

Mr. Mortimer Hopkins, however, presently offered so good an 
excuse for obtruding his company on her that Barbara repented 
of the slight snubbing conveyed in her manner. 

To put the matter more briefly than he was able to do, Morti- 


196 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


mer informed Miss Copley that he had long desired to extend his 
very limited knowledge of the French language, and especially to 
achieve facility in reading and writing it; that his particular 
friends, Messrs. Green and Toller, of the house of Rhodonides, 
Greek merchants of high standing, were desirous of doing the 
same for business purposes ; and that hearing what she had said 
just now to Mrs. Green, he had conceived the hope that Miss 
Copley possibly might, as a very great favor, consent to allow them 
to form a class who could wait on her at her own house on Satur- 
day evenings — that being their only free day — for the purpose of 
profiting by her instruction. 

The proposal surprised Barbara somewhat, but after a moment’s 
reflection she saw no reason to reject it off-hand. It would not 
be right to throw away the chance of any honest gains at such a 
time as this. And then, as she pondered, a bright thought oc- 
curred to her, and she turned so sweet and smiling a countenance 
on Mortimer that that enamoured youth declared afterwards that 
he could fain have knelt upon the flagstones beneath the nearest 
gas-lamp and gazed on it forever. 

“ Do you know, Mr. Hopkins,” she said, “ I think we may be 
able to do better for you and your friends than that.” 

Mortimer instantly stiffened his neck — literally and metaphori- 
cally — and declared that it would be impossible to do better, and 
that, at all events, he didn’t want to do better. 

“ Oh, but pray wait until you have heard what I have to say. 
I could not, in any case, decide such a question without consult- 
ing my aunt, Miss Hughes — ” 

“Certainly not!” cried Mortimer, eagerly catching her up. 
“ My aim and object was to lay the proposition before Miss 
Hughes, and I thought that possibly she might waive etiquette — 
being a business transaction, you know — and allow me to call and 
speak to her.” 

“ By all means,” answered Barbara, with alacrity. “ Indeed, if 
you are not bound on some other errand, as I think you told me, 
you might come to our house now, and I would present you to 
my grand-aunt at once.” 

“ Oh, my errand may — may wait,” replied Mortimer, checking 
himself in the consignment of his (wholly fictitious) errand to 
“ the deuce,” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


197 


Now the candid reader must understand that the whole scheme 
and proposal of the French class had emanated from Mr. Morti- 
mer Hopkins’s unassisted brain. He was its sole author, and the 
unconscious Green and Toller had no more intention of asking 
Miss Copley to give them lessons in French than of asking her to 
teach them English — which latter instruction would, perhaps, 
have profited them more. But Mortimer cared not a straw about 
that. He had for some time been cudgelling his brains for the 
means of gaining an entrance into the Hugheses’ house, and Bar- 
bara’s application to Mrs. Green that evening had suddenly in- 
spired him with this invention. He perceived that he would have 
much more chance of gaining a hearing, if he made the proposal 
for a class instead of single lessons. It would always be easy 
to say afterwards that his friends found they couldn’t spare 
the time, or that they had changed their minds, or — in fact, 
anything ! He was not at all solicitous as to the figure they 
would cut in Miss Copley’s eyes. Besides, all was fair in love and 
war. 

When the little house in the dingy side-street was reached, and 
Larcher had opened the door and surveyed Miss Barbara’s com- 
panion with a cool and critical eye, Barbara asked the young man 
to be so kind as to wait for a few minutes, while she announced 
his visit to her grand-aunt; and he was ushered by Larcher into 
the back parlor, and left alone there with a tallow candle. 

The back parlor was Miss Judith’s schoolroom; and although 
perfectly neat and clean, like all the rest of the house, could 
scarcely be called luxurious or cheerful ; especially without a fire, 
and seen by that feeble illumination. But Mortimer Hopkins, 
sitting astride a school bench, was not at that moment much ac- 
cessible to external influences. His feelings fluctuated between 
exultation at finding himself actually beneath the roof of Miss 
Copley’s house, and wonder as to what his governor would say to 
it all, when he knew. But, on this score, Mortimer was not very 
uneasy. He had been a petted and indulged son all his life ; and 
it was not very likely — so he argued — that his governor should 
thwart him in what he had so set his heart upon. He only 
wished he had as little misgiving about the consent of somebody 
else ! Not that he was disposed to underrate his own advantages, 
which appeared to him in the most favorable light directly he 


198 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


thought them over quietly by himself ; but which somehow had 
a tendency to grow dim in Miss Copley’s presence — like a coal 
fire quenched by sunbeams. 

He was not left long in solitude. Judith Hughes was not one 
of those old ladies who require to be elaborately prepared for 
the reception of everything new and unexpected. Her wits were 
alert, and her vivacity equal to most occasions. 

“ Come in, sir,” said Miss Hughes, graciously, but condescend- 
ingly, when the young man appeared at the parlor door, sum- 
moned thither by Larcher. And Mortimer, with his most elegant 
bow, took the seat to which the old lady pointed. 

“My niece, Miss Copley, has informed me of the object of your 
coming,” said Miss Hughes, “ so we need not detain you or waste 
time by going over that.' 1 '' 

Mortimer tried to murmur that he had plenty of time, and to 
beg that she wouldn’t talk about detaining him, for he w T as only 
too happy. But the old lady waved her hand cavalierly, and 
went on — Mortimer meanwhile glancing furtively at Barbara, who 
had laid aside her hat and cloak, and was placidly engaged on 
some needlework at the opposite side of the table. 

“ I am not indisposed to consider your proposal,” proceeded 
Miss Hughes. “ We have never had any adult classes at home ; 
but that is no reason why we never should have.” 

“ I’m sure,” said Mortimer, determined not to be repressed 
this time, “that Miss Copley’s accomplishments will meet with 
the ’ighest appreciation. And as to the figure, if you, madam, 
will be kind enough to name it, I believe you will find no diffi- 
culties made on that score.” 

“ Miss Copley’s accomplishments need not enter into the mat- 
ter,” returned Aunt Judith. “ I am not sure that such an en- 
gagement would quite suit Miss Copley, although she is equally 
obliged to you for offering it. But we needn’t discuss it; for 
what I would propose — it is my niece’s suggestion, in fact, but I 
entirely endorse it — is that the class should be taken by my 
grandnephew, Mr. Claude Copley, who is about immediately to 
return from abroad, who is an excellent French scholar, and who 
has had the advantage of speaking the language familiarly during 
several months past.” 

Mortimer Hopkins was so completely taken aback by this 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


199 


proposal, and so profoundly dismayed by it, that lie lost all pres- 
ence of mind, and could only sit staring blankly at Miss Judith 
Hughes with a very lack-lustre and rueful visage iudeed. 

The ladies seemed infected by his embarrassment ; for they, 
too, remained quite silent, looking at him — as he felt, rather than 
said — with considerable surprise. 

At length, stammering out some incoherent words of thanks 
and excuse, and the necessity of consulting Green and Toller, and 
his own regretful misgivings that Green and Toller were not to be 
entirely relied on to carry out any plan of the kind steadily, be- 
ing, in fact, unstable and infirm of purpose to a degree which was 
a source of constant distress to their best friends — with these and 
other wandering phrases, and a promise that Miss Hughes should 
hear from him, and some lame and ineffectual attempt to recover 
his accustomed ease of manner, Mr. Mortimer Hopkins made his 
bow, and took his leave. 

But as he walked away from the house and collected his 
thoughts a little, he perceived that, under the circumstances of 
the case, to decline taking lessons from Claude Copley would 
probably close his acquaintance with the Hugheses altogether ; 
while to accept the offer would give him opportunities of visiting 
the house, of ingratiating himself with the family, of seeing Bar- 
bara. In fact, the personal acquaintance of the young man 
Claude might afford him the very chance he had coveted, of at- 
taining a familiar footing with Barbara’s friends and family. 
What a fool he had been not to see it! No matter; the thing 
was not irrevocable. He would write a polite epistle to Miss 
Hughes the next day, explaining that he had found himself 
obliged to cast Green and Toller to the winds (so far as making 
any arrangements for taking lessons in common was concerned) ; 
and that being now free to enter into an agreement for him- 
self alone, he anxiously awaited the arrival of Mr. Claude, and 
hoped to benefit by his instructions in the French language forth- 
with. 

“ What a very queer young man, Barbara !” exclaimed Aunt 
Judith when the hall-door had shut behind him. 

“ Of course he is vulgar, Aunt Judith, but — ” 

“ Vulgar ! Oh, it isn’t his vulgarity which makes him remark- 
able. But he seems so fitful. And what in the world made him 


200 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


sit most of the time with his head on one side, like a wax dum- 
my in a barber’s shop ?” 

Mortimer had been trying the effect on Miss Copley of his 
Early Greek profile. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Mrs. Kettering having found agreeable society at Montreux — 
where she had established herself in a villa — and Ida seeming to 
prosper and gain strength, it was decided that the two should 
still remain in Switzerland for a while, and that Miss Stringer 
should take Olga home and remain to take care of her and keep 
house for Mr. Kettering until his wife’s return to England. 

Olga preferred to go home at once. The gayeties of the London 
winter season were at hand, and, moreover, Olga was rather ag- 
gressively English, and declared that she was sick of the Russians 
on Lake Leman, couldn’t stand the French, and found the Ger- 
mans whom she met there very inferior specimens. 

“ I hardly think, Olga, that prize specimens of any nation are 
selected for exportation,” remarked Miss Stringer. 

“ I’m sure some very nice people travel, Sally,” remonstrated 
Mrs. Kettering, who was nothing if not matter-of-fact. 

“ I didn’t mean that the best sort don’t go abroad ; I meant 
that they don’t stay abroad. People should travel, like fine 
madeira, to improve their flavor for home consumption.” 

“ I suppose Mrs. Armour will manage to hook herself on to 
you and Olga for the journey to England,” said Ida, in whose 
mind the foregoing remarks had awakened a lively recollection of 
the Pension Monplaisir. 

“ She’ll find the surface rather hard and slippery for her hook,” 
returned Miss Stringer, with her most resolute horizontal tighten- 
ing of the lips. 

But here Mrs. Kettering interposed to say that she saw no ob- 
jection to Mrs. Armour’s travelling home in their company ; that 
Mrs. Armour was a very nice person ; and that she was sure 
Philip would wish every civility to be shown to the widow of his 
old friend. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


201 


Sally made no audible reply to this; but she observed within 
herself that Philip had not yet seen the widow of his old friend, 
and that, as a general rule, the result of showing civil attentions 
to a crocodile was that he ate you up. Nevertheless, Mrs. Ket- 
tering’s words were not without effect on Sally. She was at- 
tached to her cousin Philip and to all the family, and would not 
willingly hurt or vex them. As for them, they were all fond of 
Sally in their various ways, and no more thought of resenting her 
pungent speeches than they would think of objecting to ginger 
because it is hot in the mouth. 

So Mrs. Armour accompanied Miss Stringer and Miss Ketter- 
ing on their journey home as far as the Victoria Railway Station, 
and received not one snub or sarcasm from the former on the 
way. But when Mrs. Armour’s cab was jolting in one direction 
and Mrs. Kettering’s luxurious carriage rolling in another, Miss 
Stringer gave a sigh of relief, aud informed Olga that she now 
knew how a dog felt when his muzzle was taken off. 

“ I knew my only chance of not quarrelling with her was to 
hold my tongue as rigidly as human nature could endure. I 
scarcely even veutured on yes or no. And my head has been 
nodded and shaken until the bones of my neck ache. But there’s 
one consolation : I think I puzzled her.” 

As in truth she had. 

The travellers had not left Switzerland four-and-twenty hours 
before Mrs. Kettering received a letter from her sister-in-law in 
Hamburg. Mrs. Hofmann, more than ever alarmed by the tone 
of Fritz’s reply to her last letter, wrote to Gertrude Kettering, 
begging that, although she herself was absent from London, she 
would cause some inquiries to be made confidentially as to Fritz’s 
relations with the Hughes family ; hinting her fears that he was 
becoming entangled with Miss Copley, and setting forth that such 
an alliance — besides being in any case quite beneath Fritz — would 
be absolutely the ruin of her prospects, inasmuch as her brother 
Arthur set his face against it, and threatened direful things at the 
most distant allusion to it. 

“ Nor can you,” wrote Mrs. Hofmann, “ much wonder at 
Arthur’s feeling.” (She had wondered at it a good deal herself, 
as being strangely exaggerated in its intensity ; but that is not 
material.) “ When one remembers the severe sacrifice Arthur 


202 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


made to filial feeling, and to the unblemished reputation and 
high standing of our parents in Marypool, one understands that 
he should be intolerant of anything like selfish weakness in Fritz. 
And would it not be too cruel to have all the same misery re- 
peated over again in the younger generation ? But I trust my 
dear boy is not wholly infatuated. I wish I knew what was best 
to do. Do you think Philip would mind speaking to him on the 
subject ?” 

Now Mrs. Kettering, having only the haziest knowledge of Mrs. 
Arthur Maddison’s love-story, and no interest whatever in it — 
they had only met once, and had not liked each other — and be- 
ing altogether too lazy to set herself to unravel the matter, or 
to write at length about it, simply put Mrs. Hofmann’s letter 
into an envelope and sent it off to Sally Stringer. She was 
by no means indifferent to Fritz’s interests. She loved her 
nephew almost as well as she loved her own children. But 
the whole of Mrs. Hofmann’s statement seemed to her so in- 
coherent and improbable that it made but small impression on 
her. 

She enclosed with it a few lines of her own to Miss Stringer, 
which ran thus : 

“I cannot imagine what story Augusta has got hold of; nor 
what she means by writing in that way about Miss Copley. Fritz 
was aux 'petits soms with Lady Lambton when I saw him last, and 
I thought that might do very well, only my girls don’t much like 
her. As to Philip’s interfering, you know Philip well enough to 
be sure that nothing would induce him to do such a thing. Be- 
sides, Fritz is not a boy to be lectured. Will you just look into 
the matter, my dear Sally ? I know I can rely on you so thor- 
oughly. Of course, if I were on the spot, I would not give you 
this trouble; and, perhaps, it would be as well for Olga not to 
resume her pianoforte lessons with Miss Copley, as she thought of 
doing. I am sorry for Augusta, who is evidently worrying her- 
self, though I think it is all nonsense, and so we had better keep 
clear of Miss Copley for the present.” 

The receipt of these lines and the letter enclosed with them set 
Sally Stringer pondering earnestly. Her mind was as active as 
Mrs. Kettering’s was lazy, and she had naturally more knowl- 
edge of the past events alluded to in Mrs. Hofmann’s letter than 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


203 


Gertrude, who, when they happened, was a school-girl in Ham- 
burg, with two thick plaits of hair hanging down her back, and 
no foreknowledge in her pretty blond head that she was des- 
tined to marry an Englishman and become distantly connected 
with the Maddisons of Marypool. 

Sally sat with the letter laid on her little leather desk before 
her, her elbows on the table, and her hands pressed against her 
temples, for a long time. Then, when she changed her attitude, 
she shut the letters in her desk with a decisive snap of that lock, 
and said to herself, 

“There can’t be a doubt about it. It’s the same family; and 
the catastrophe which broke off the girl’s marriage and did so 
much more terrible mischief was brought about by that precious 
rascal, my kinsman, Christopher Dalton. The girl’s name was 
Hughes, to be sure ! It comes back to me now. I remember 
reading the inquest on poor Mr. David Hughes in the paper, 
which I purloined from papa’s room for the purpose. Dear me, 
I haven’t thought of all that for a good deal more than twenty 
years. And how very extraordinary that that man Maddison’s 
nephew and the daughter of — ” 

But here the rapid flow of Miss Stringer’s thoughts was 
checked. “No,” she said to herself, “that part of the story is 
more doubtful.” 

She considered it very likely that Mrs. Hofmann had jumped 
to a wrong conclusion about her son and Miss Copley. Mothers 
of only sons were apt to make such mistakes. But what was not 
doubtful to Sally’s perspicacity was that if, as her letter seemed 
to imply, she had written explicitly, warning her son not to fall 
in love with Miss Copley, she had done about the most foolish 
thing possible under the circumstances. 

And then there crept into Miss Stringer’s mind another 
thought, or, rather, peeped into it at first, and, being driven 
hastily away, returned again and again with ever-increasing con- 
fidence, until, at length, it boldly entered — though without the 
least encouragement — and settled itself as though it could never 
more be dislodged. This thought was that possibly it might not 
be so fatal and disastrous a thing, after all, if Fritz did marry 
Barbara Copley ! 

However, she made up her mind to pupil Mrs. Kettering’s trust 


204 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


as well as she could, and to watch Fritz by the light of this unex- 
pected communication. 

Opportunities of observing him were not wanting, for Fritz 
was a frequent and welcome guest at Mr. Kettering’s house, and 
had a standing invitation to drive there whenever it should please 
him to drop in. It pleased him to do so within a few days of 
Miss Stringer’s and Olga’s return. They were all very glad to see 
him ; and the little party made a very cheerful and friendly 
quartet at the dinner-table. 

Miss Stringer, as she chatted, watched Fritz. She watched 
him when mention was made of Mr. William Hughes at Vevey ; 
and Fritz said yes; he was sure from a work of his he had seen, 
that Mr. Hughes was an artist of a rare and delicate talent ; and 
that he had not met him yet, but hoped to have the pleasure of 
doing so when Mr. Hughes came back. And nothing franker, 
easier, or more unembarrassed than was Fritz’s manner of saying 
this could be imagined. She watched him when Olga praised 
Mr. Hughes’s accomplishments, and remarked casually that he 
had been his niece’s chief instructor in music and language ; and 
Fritz said no doubt she could not have had a better; and troubled 
Mr. Kettering for some more jugged hare with perfect self-pos- 
session. 

Then Miss Sally, being heartily tired of lying in ambush, which 
was foreign to her temperament, advanced boldly into the open, 
and as soon as the servants had left the room she demanded point- 
blank whether Fritz had seen Miss Copley lately. To which 
question he replied cheerfully, oh yes, certainly; he had seen 
Miss Copley, twice at her own house, and frequently at Lady 
Lambton’s. 

“ Oh ! At Lady Lambton’s !” echoed Sally, with an odd sen- 
sation of displeasure and disappointment. 

“Ay, ay, at Lady Lambton’s, eh?” said Mr. Kettering, with 
the soft voice and suave manner which he cultivated so success- 
fully. “You had better take care, Fritz, how you hover near that 
effulgence. You may singe your wings.” 

“My dear Uncle Philip,” answered Fritz, filling his wine-glass. 
“My wings must have been, not singed, but scorched — shrivelled 
up altogether, if they had been made of inflammable stuff. But 
they evidently are not. The result proves it. The alternative 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


205 


would be that the effulgence lias no power to burn, which is, of 
course, a quite inadmissible hypothesis.” 

Sally looked at him with a brightening face, and the tension 
of her mouth relaxed. 

“ Don’t be a humbug, Fritz,” said Olga, impatiently. “ All that 
stuff about wings and liame is gammon — ” 

“ My dear Olga !” interrupted Mr. Kettering, raising his head a 
little, and his eyebrows a great deal. 

“ I beg your pardon, papa. I know that is slang ; but I don’t 
think there’s an elegant word to express what I mean.” 

“ I would advise you then, Olga, not to mean anything that 
you cannot express with elegance.” 

“ Goodiiess, papa !” exclaimed Olga, with a face of almost 
tragic protest against so intolerable a limitation of human inter- 
course. 

Miss Stringer, at this point, rose to withdraw, and Olga, of 
course, followed her example. But as she did so, she said, “ It’s 
no use your pretending, Fritz. Why, all last season you flirted 
with Lady Lambton no end !” 

Fritz stood, holding the door open for the ladies, and as his 
cousin passed him he said, demurely, and dropping his voice a 
little, “ not quite no end , Olga.” 

“ Has the end come then ?” asked Olga, eagerly. But her 
father, bidding her run away and not keep the door open, she was 
obliged to depart without any explicit reply. 

But she was in high spirits when she was in the drawing-room 
alone with Sally ; and, after having rattled through a brilliant 
waltz on the piano, she whirled round the room on the point of 
her toes very lightly and gayly. 

Fritz, not lingering long down-stairs, soon joined them, and re- 
ported that Mr. Kettering had retired to his study to look over 
some papers, but would appear presently for tea. 

“Yes; Philip likes a little nap after his dinner,” said Miss 
Stringer. “ I wonder why people are so often ashamed of going 
to sleep. It’s the most innocent thing a great many men do in the 
whole course of the twenty-four hours — but, perhaps, that's why.” 

“ How much your playing has improved, Olga !” said her 
cousin. 

Olga made him a saucy little courtesy. 


206 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“Oh, of course,” he went on, “you think me a complete 
ignoramus about music. But 1 know as well as anybody when 
dance-music is played with spirit and good rhythm ; and I can 
waltz. I am not so utterly deprived of what Lady Lambton calls 
the birthright of a German as not to be able to waltz.” 

“ I admire modest confidence,” returned Olga, “ but can you do 
the new step ?” 

“ Can yon do the old step ?” 

“ You bet ! — Don’t tell papa !” 

“ There’s nothing like practical proof. Miss Stringer, just play 
us the dear old ‘ Blue Danube,’ like an angel !” And, Miss Stringer 
complying, the two cousins were soon engaged in demonstrating 
their proficiency in the art and mystery of every variety of waltz- 
step — slow, fast, gliding, hopping, trois-temps, and deux- temps, un- 
til Miss Stringer struck, and refused to play any longer. 

“A thousand thanks, Miss Stringer! That was capital. Du, 
Olga, du tamest wie eine — Deutsche /” said Fritz. And Olga, 
laughing and panting, raced off to rearrange her dishevelled hair 
before papa should appear for tea. 

“Well? If this is a specimen of your modern love-lorn swain, 
all I can say is that nous avons change tout cela /” remarked Miss 
Sally to herself, triumphantly. She was persuaded that Mrs. Hof- 
mann had found a mare’s-nest; and her resolve to fulfil Mrs. 
Kettering’s behest by “ looking into the matter ” was rendered all 
the easier because she now had no fear of what she should find 
when she did look. 

To this end she purposed taking a step that she had already 
contemplated quite apart from any reference to Fritz. She made 
up her mind to call on Miss Hughes and her niece. If any excuse 
were needed for this step, it would be furnished by the acquaint- 
ance and liking which had arisen between herself and William 
Hughes. Mindful, however, of Mrs. Kettering’s hint, she would 
not take Olga with her for the present. 

“ But I shall tell the young man beforehand what I am going 
to do,” she said to herself. “ After his mother’s letter he might 
suspect me of springing a mine on him, and the Guy-Fawkes-and- 
dark-lantern business is really not at all in my line.” 

So Miss Stringer called Fritz across the room to her, and began 
without preamble : 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


207 


“ We were talking just now about Mr. William Hughes. I 
mean to call on his aunt. You know these ladies — Miss Copley I 
know slightly myself from having seen her here — I suppose they 
would have no objection to my visit ?” 

“I should think it would gratify them very much,” answered 
Fritz, heartily. “And, if you will allow me to say so, I think it 
would also gratify you. It is a very unusual and interesting little 
household — combining poverty and dignity, simplicity and culture, 
in a singular degree.” 

“ Hah 1” returned Miss Stringer, with a short nod, “ that sounds 
very symmetrical and satisfactory. But I’ll tell you what has 
occurred to me, and I want to ask your opinion about it. Do 
you think it possible — for it seems you are on pretty good terms 
with them — that this old lady might object to any advances on 
my part because I am Chris Dalton’s kinswoman ? Perhaps she 
doesn’t know the fact; but she’s sure to know it sooner or later — 
else wherefore can jays scream and magpies chatter?” 

“ Why should it matter to Miss Judith Hughes that you are 
connected with Mr. Dalton ?” asked Fritz. 

“ Well, of course, it would be unreasonable to make us all — 
even to a first-cousin once removed — answerable for his iniquities. 
But then people who have been so deeply and cruelly injured may 
shrink from a touch that wouldn’t hurt you and me.” 

Then Fritz made it plain, to his hearer’s great surprise, that 
although he knew something of Arthur Maddison’s former re- 
lations with the Hughes family, he was quite ignorant of all the 
details; and so it fell to Sally Stringer to narrate to him the sor- 
rowful history of Winifred Hughes. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

All that Sally Stringer told him drew Fritz nearer and nearer 
to the conclusion that the best use he could make of his free will 
in that matter of falling in love would be to exert it for the pur- 
pose of marrying Miss Barbara Copley. Whether Fritz’s philo- 
sophical self-analysis led hirp to right or wrong conclusions about 


208 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


himself, it was certain that there were some convictions which he 
arrived at without any self-analysis at all, and which he held with 
generous and unreasoning ardor. 

One of these was that the Maddison family owed some repara- 
tion to Olive Hughes ; and that, since Olive Hughes was person- 
ally removed from the need or the possibility of such reparation, 
they ought to make what amends they could to Olive’s children. 
Fritz scouted the idea of admiring his Uncle Arthur’s self-sacrifice 
and high principle. “He was just a selfish coward and a miser- 
able slave to their English fetich, Mrs. Grundy,” said Fritz, with 
the most unphilosophical heat and haste. 

His mind was so full of the story, and Miss Stringer, in her 
loyalty to his mother, received all he had to say upon it with 
such inflexibly closed lips, that Fritz was moved to open his heart 
on the subject to his cousin Olga. 

Olga listened with warm sympathy and eager interest; sharing 
her cousin’s views about the hard fate of that poor Miss Olive 
Hughes, and the sorry figure made by Mr. Arthur Maddison ; and, 
in her ardor, she announced to Sally Stringer that she had got 
papa’s leave to resume her pianoforte lessons from Miss Copley, 
and, being determined to work hard, meant to have at least three 
lessons a week. 

Great were her surprise and disappointment to be told that 
Sally could not consent to this arrangement in the absence of Mrs. 
Kettering, who had, in fact, written from Switzerland to say that 
she did not, wish it. 

“Mamma has written to say so!” exclaimed Olga, in amaze- 
ment. “But, Sally, I only thought of it myself yesterday !” 

Miss Stringer made an impatient movement of the head. 

“ I can’t help that, Olga,” she answered. “ I’ve got to obey 
orders. ‘ Obey orders and break owners,’ as they say in the 
merchant service. And,” she added to herself, “ I shouldn’t so 
much mind breaking owners if I hadn’t to break my own head 
with all these mysteries and botherations.” 

Olga appealed to her father against the prohibition to employ 
Miss Copley ; Mr. Kettering mentioned the matter at the breakfast- 
table, and finally Sally demanded a private interview with her 
cousin, laid his wife’s and Mrs. Hofmann’s letters before him, and 
left him to decide as he thought fit. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


209 


“ I will now resign the dark lantern into your charge, Philip, if 
you please. Likewise the fagots. As for the gunpowder, that 
appears to be pretty generally diffused throughout the atmos- 
phere,” said Miss Stringer. 

Mr. Kettering was more displeased at the idea that his wife’s 
nephew could contemplate marrying a girl in Miss Copley’s social 
position than might have been expected from the liberal theories 
he was fond of enunciating. 

“ I cannot believe that Fritz will be so foolish,” he said, over 
and over again, holding Mrs. Hofmann’s letter in his hand, and 
glancing at it from time to time with an air of great vexation. 
“ I cannot believe that a young man of his distinguished intelli- 
gence will do anything so disastrous.” 

And Sally’s remark that it would, indeed, be an absurdly level- 
ling and democratic proceeding, seeing that Miss Copley had noth- 
ing to recommend her but her good looks, good principles, and a 
good education, did not appear to put him into a better humor. 

“ My dear Sally,” he said, with immense and even severe polite- 
ness, “ you will excuse me for observing that that sort of irony is 
misplaced here. This is a case for the exercise of common-sense 
— simply and solely common-sense.” 

“Certainly. The commonest of the common!” assented the 
irrepressible Sally. 

Mr. Kettering supported his wife’s objection to having Miss 
Copley in their house just now, and in communicating his deci- 
sion to Olga he thought fit to explain his reasons for it — he had 
great confidence in Olga’s good sense. 

Whatever were Olga’s thoughts as to this revelation, she kept 
them to herself, and refrained from saying a word more to her 
father on the subject of the pianoforte lessons. But the next 
time Fritz began a confidential chat with her — it was a gray, cold 
November day, and the cousins were taking a brisk walk round 
the Regent’s Park — she said in her favorite phraseology, but with 
a tremor of feeling in her voice, 

“ I think Miss Copley is no end of a brick, Fritz ; the kind of 
girl any man might be proud of being spoons on.” 

Fritz pressed the hand on his arm fraternally, and, looking 
round at her with a cordial answer on his lips, said, suddenly, 
“ What is the matter with your eyes, Olga?” 

14 


210 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ With mv eyes ? Oh, they — they smart a little. I think it 
must be the frost in the air.” 

“ You do not know how happy it makes me, Olga, to find you so 
sound-hearted on this point. I detest from my soul the kind of 
cant that my Uncle Arthur, as well as a good many other people, 
indulges in, mouthing out the Lord’s Prayer while they are on 
their knees before Mammon. If a man tells me honestly that he 
thinks money and the world are the things best worth living for, 
at any rate he is sincere according to his lights. But to be bit- 
ted and bridled by Mrs. Grundy, and at the same time to boast 
that you are prancing over the prairie at your own free will, is 
despicable humbug ; and I confess that it — it — ” 

“It raises your dander. Yes; I know.” 

“ But you are above all that, Olga. It gives me a glow of de- 
light to know it. You and I have always been good friends, but 
we shall be better friends than ever now, dear ; sha’n’t we ?” 

“Everything on the square. All serene, Fritz. I — I do think 
there is a dreadful sting in the air !” And Olga drew out her 
pocket-handkerchief, and blew her pretty little nose vehemently. 

Fritz did not make any explicit confidence about Miss Copley 
to his cousin ; finding, indeed, that he had nothing to say which 
he could well put into words. But he resolved to call at the 
Hugheses’ house on the following Sunday, for the purpose of 
making William’s acquaintance, since he assumed that the latter 
must have returned from Switzerland by this time. 

William Hughes and his nephew had, in fact, been at home 
nearly a fortnight already. And the family was falling into a 
routine of life which necessarily differed in several particulars 
from the life they had been leading before. Claude’s presence 
made changes; and to none of the party — not even to Aunt 
Judith, after the first flush of delight in seeing her boy at home 
again — were the changes pleasant ones. 

For the first few days after his return to England his health 
seemed to be better, and his spirits brighter than at Yevey ; and 
his uncle was happy to observe this improvement. But it proved 
to be but brief. Although he had complained bitterly of his life 
at the Pension Monplaisir, he had not been long at home before 
he began to regret it. He missed the movement, the amusement 
of seeing new faces, the excitement of Mrs. Armour’s society. In 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


211 


his uncle’s presence he exercised some self-control ; but with the 
women alone he soon grew peevish, exacting, and irritable. 

Moreover, the confident expectations of finding employment 
which Claude had expressed in Yevey did not appear to animate 
him in London. At all events, they did not animate him to 
make any energetic efforts in that direction ; and when he had 
answered half a dozen advertisements without avail, and taken a 
long journey on the top of an omnibus to obtain an interview 
with a gentleman who was sorry to have troubled him, but had 
engaged a secretary last week and forgotten to countermand the 
newspaper announcement that he wanted one, Claude appeared to 
think he had done all that could be expected of him. 

It was then that Aunt Judith brought forward the proposal of 
Mortimer Hopkins. She had argued at first that it was scarcely 
worth while to do so, since Claude would be sure to find some- 
thing better very shortly. But as the days went by, and Claude, 
while adding considerably to the household bills, made no addi- 
tion whatever to the means of meeting them, the old lady could not 
reconcile it with her conscience to keep back the proposal any longer. 

She mentioned it to William as they sat at breakfast one 
morning. Barbara and William breakfasted early, in order to go 
out betimes to work; and Aunt Judith arose by candle-light all 
through the winter as bravely and briskly as though the seventy 
years that had whitened her hair had fallen light as snowflakes. 

“Is Claude not down yet?” asked William, contracting his 
brows a little. 

“He sleeps so heavily in the mornings! Don’t be angry with 
him, William !” pleaded Judith, looking up, anxiously. 

William, for all answer, patted his aunt’s brown little hand and 
settled a cushion under her feet. 

“Oh, I'm all right, my dear,” she said, quickly, answering 
unspoken words. “ It don’t hurt me to get up. Old people need 
less sleep than young ones. I wanted just to tell you of an idea 
that has been broached of Claude’s giving French lessons — only 
while he is waiting for something better, you know.” 

Then she told him of Mr. Mortimer Hopkins’s visit; and 
mentioned that she had had a letter from him since. “ Here it 
is. I haven’t answered it yet. I waited to — to consult you, of 
course, William.” 


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THAT WILD WHEEL. 


William was greatly astonished by this step on the part of 
Mortimer Hopkins; but as he read the letter, he thought he 
perceived an intelligible motive for applying to his family rather 
than to any well-known teacher of French. Mortimer plainly ex- 
pressed his hope and expectation that the lessons would be cheap. 
He had a considerable turn — inherited, no doubt, from the paternal 
side of the house — for making a bargain, and getting the most 
that could be got for his money. And having been — as he men- 
tally put it — jockeyed into taking lessons from Barbara’s brother, 
he was anxious not to be jockeyed also in the price. 

William, without hesitation, recommended that young Hop- 
kins’s proposal should be accepted. It might lead to more pupils, 
and to Claude’s earning his bread altogether by teaching. But 
Claude, when he was told of the contemplated arrangement, made 
a very wry face. Aunt Judith privately urged him to make no 
objection. “The young man will come here to you. It will not 
give you much trouble, and, although odd in his manner — ” 

“The fellow is a cad, of course!” interrupted Claude, loftily. 

“Well, but he is quite respectful — quite knows his place. And 
it will give you a little pocket-money, my dear. And, in any case, 
it will be but for a time, you know.” 

So the matter was settled by Aunt Judith’s writing a polite 
note to Mortimer Hopkins, naming a very low price for the 
lessons ; and fixing the following Saturday evening for the first 
of them. 

Meanwhile, Barbara waited and hoped that her uncle would 
volunteer some mention of Hazel. Day after day passed, and he 
made none. In the morning, when he rose from breakfast, she 
thought, “ He will speak to-morrow.” But he said nothing. Pie 
little guessed what was in Barbara’s mind when she looked at 
him so wistfully. He little guessed how large a share of her 
thoughts Hazel had occupied since they parted at Thornfield 
harm. He had written to Barbara the news given by Mrs. 
Armour, because it was his habit to write everything of interest 
in his daily life to Barbara. But he had reflected afterwards 
that it was useless to call back those Thornfield days to her 
memory, since it was not very likely that Hazel should come 
again within their ken. 

It was not to be desired, for Hazel’s peace of mind, that he 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


213 


should be near Barbara until time should have brought him con- 
solation or forgetfulness ; and he did not believe that Hazel’s was 
a nature to which either could come quickly. But he had now, it 
seemed, new occupations — work to do. And work, as William 
Hughes knew by experience, is, if not a cure, at least an anaes- 
thetic, for many heartaches. Since Hazel had made no sign, 
William understood that he feared to put himself again within 
reach of Barbara’s influence, lest he should be tempted out of his 
self-sacrificing silence. 

It did sometimes occur to William when he mused upon the 
subject — and it was often in his mind — that perhaps Hazel held 
an exaggerated idea of the means he ought to possess before he 
could venture to woo Barbara to be his wife. Things surely must 
have improved with him, or he would not have given up his pro- 
fession. But William Hughes would no more have hinted a 
thought of this kind to Hazel, had he stood bodily before 
him, than he would have plainly importuned him to marry his 
niece. Barbara was something too tender, delicate, and sacred to 
be discussed or weighed against so many pounds sterling per 
annum. And William’s pride on her behalf was intensely sen- 
sitive. 

At length Barbara, having considered the question with all the 
earnestness and sincerity of her character, came to the conclusion 
that it was not fair or loyal to Hazel to let the matter go in si- 
lence. There might be good and sufficient reasons why he had 
not written, and it was her duty to elicit those reasons if they ex- 
isted rather than let unkind or disparaging thoughts of him play 
on her mind. So one night, when Aunt Judith was gone to bed, 
she called up all her courage, and told her uncle that she won- 
dered Mr. Hazel had not written to give him the news which he 
heard by chance in the boarding-house at Yevey. 

“ I could hardly expect Hazel to write to an acquaintance such 
as I am, in the midst of all the business of so great a change in 
his life,” answered William, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, 
and preparing to put it in its case for the night. 

Barbara stood beside him, with one foot poised on the fender, 
her elbow leaning on the little mantel-shelf, and her hand shading 
her face from the last glowing embers of the fire. 

“ But, Uncle William,” she said, “ you were something more 


214 


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than a mere acquaintance of Mr. Hazel’s. He talked to you with 
the open confidence of a friend. He seemed to understand and 
appreciate you. I should be sorry to think his feeling towards 
you was less warm and sincere than it seemed. It would lower 
him irrevocably in my esteem.” 

And Barbara, who had begun to speak in a somewhat low and 
tremulous voice, ended firmly, and raised her eyes to her uncle’s 
with a bright, clear glance of proud affection. 

William smoothed back the hair from her forehead tenderly. 
But he answered, with one of his quaint smiles, 

“ I know, my dear, that there is but one true touchstone of 
merit. But I believe Hazel is not really deficient in that regard 
for me without which let no man hope to win Miss Copley’s good 
opinion. But we agreed, he and I, not to engage ourselves in a 
regular correspondence. If ever we come across each other, we 
shall meet on the old terms, I doubt not. You mustn’t think 
hardly of poor Hazel, Barbara.” 

But Barbara, although she longed with all her heart to think 
well of him, could not help a little aching sense of disappoint- 
ment. 

But she held her peace. There was trouble enough on her 
uncle’s shoulders without her adding to its weight by so much as 
a grain. The loss of Lady Lambton and the Ketterings had not 
been replaced by any other pupils. Claude’s return home had 
fulfilled his sister’s foreboding; he was a charge upon the house- 
hold, and a ceaseless care to them all. William had no fresh com- 
missions, and, according to Mr. Barker the picture- dealer’s ac- 
count, still owed that benevolent tradesman a part of the money 
advanced to enable him to paint his last picture. The gleam of 
good fortune which appeared to have broken on the family a few 
months ago had faded again, and the clouds were gathering darkly. 

But in the midst of it all, Aunt Judith seemed to be upheld by 
some mysterious source of cheerfulness. It could not be the 
pleasure of having Claude with her, for the poor soul passed many 
painful hours on his account, and was constantly on the watch to 
screen him from his uncle’s displeasure. Neither was there any- 
thing very encouraging in the prospects of her little day school, 
which barely paid its way. Nevertheless, Miss Hughes’s spirits 
rose to “ set-fair,” and stayed there steadily. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


215 


Barbara concluded at last that her grand-aunt had been more 
gratified than the occasion warranted by a visit from Miss 
Stringer. Barbara and her uncle were both out, but Miss 
Stringer had taken advantage of their absence to speak very 
highly of them both behind their backs, as Aunt Judith reported. 
And Miss Stringer had expressed regret that Lady Lambton had 
relinquished her lessons from Miss Copley, and had said that Mr. 
Hofmann had mentioned having met Miss Copley at Lady Lamb- 
ton’s several times, and having also called on Miss Hughes; and 
she had asked if they had seen him lately. “ But,” said Miss 
Hughes, “ I took all that part very coolly. I answered that 
he had been here not very long ago, as well as I remembered. 
I would not allow Miss Stringer to imagine that we were eager 
for Mr. Hofmann’s visits, or prized them in an exaggerated de- 
gree.” 

“ No, I suppose not,” said Barbara, with a transient look of 
surprise. “But among all the items of Miss Stringer’s conversa- 
tion, did she allude to the engagement between Mr. Hofmann and 
Lady Lambton?” 

Aunt Judith turned her dark eyes searchingly on Barbara be- 
fore answering, in a tone which Barbara would have thought 
triumphant had it been possible to imagine any cause for triumph 
in the case — “No, my dear; she did not . And, moreover, as I 
have told you once or twice lately, I don’t believe that any such 
marriage is in contemplation at all.” 

“ And I,” answered Barbara, playfully, “have always asked, in 
reply, why in the world should such a marriage not be in contem- 
plation ?” 

“ For a reason that used to be thought a pretty good one in my 
young days,” answered Miss Hughes, briskly : “ namely, because 
Mr. Hofmann is no more in love with Lady Lambton than I am 
with the muffin-boy !” 


/ 


216 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

That meritorious knowledge of his place which Miss Hughes had 
observed in the demeanor of Mortimer Hopkins towards herself 
and her niece totally disappeared in his intercourse with Claude. 

He wished to be civil to Miss Copley’s brother — nay, more, he 
wished to make a favorable impression on him. But he took it 
for granted that the same methods which had made him, as he 
flattered himself, a brilliant and popular ornament to the society 
of the Greens and Tollers would avail with Claude. 

Nevertheless, contrary to what might have been expected be- 
forehand, the two young men got on together amicably enough. 
Claude swaggered a good deal about his family, and held forth 
with magnificent disdain on the subject of the Vevey boarding- 
house and his employment there; adding that he should certainly 
not accept any similar position again, but rather thought of get- 
ting an appointment as manager of the foreign correspondence in 
some leading city house. While Mortimer — privately well pleased 
that his future brother-in-law should hold such lofty and gentle- 
manlike views — discoursed of Art and Culture, and promised him- 
self the pleasure of inviting his friend Copley to some of those 
select gatherings at his lodgings which shed a lustre on Anson 
Street ; and of impressing Green and Toller with the gentility and 
superiority of the Copley connection. 

But whatever might have been the case as to the refinements 
of social intercourse, the study of the French language decidedly 
languished on the Saturday evening when Mortimer was sup- 
posed to be applying himself to it. It made all the less progress 
when, after one or two lessons, it was settled, at Claude’s sug- 
gestion, that in future the lessons should be given at Mortimer’s 
house instead of at his own. Mortimer agreed to this without 
difficulty, because he soon found that he scarcely ever saw Miss 
Copley on Saturday evenings. He had figured to himself that 
she would be always in the room, and that he should have many 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


217 


opportunities of improving his acquaintance with her and with 
Miss Hughes. But this was not the case. The ladies sat in the 
little schoolroom during the French lessons, and left the front 
parlor free. 

Claude’s reason for desiring the change was made up of mingled 
motives. The first and strongest of these, perhaps, was the mere 
vague, restless desire for change, which often possessed him. Then 
there was the consideration that he would be able to smoke as 
much as he pleased in Mortimer’s lodgings. And, lastly, he would 
be free from even the slight supervision exercised over him at 
home. Barbara’s silent presence — even the knowledge that Bar- 
bara was in the house, and might appear at any moment — irked 
her brother in certain of his moods ; and was almost as great a 
constraint on his boastful self-assertion as the presence of William 
Hughes himself. 

The elder Hopkins had been much impressed by Mr. Coney’s 
story of the mention of Claude Copley’s name in a lawyer’s letter 
to Christopher Dalton. And although he had long ago made 
minute and searching inquiries into all the branches of Dalton’s 
family connections, yet he took advantage of the opportunity 
afforded him by Copley’s visits to his son, and cross-examined 
Claude as cautiously as he could. 

Claude, of course, could but reiterate his assurance that Mr. 
Christopher Dalton was not of his kin, even in the most distant 
degree. But not content with this, he spoke with so much bit- 
terness and animosity of Dalton — whom it was clearly impossible 
he could ever have seen in his life — that Hopkins was more and 
more puzzled. 

At length, however, some word of Claude’s seemed faintly to 
illuminate the twilight in which the picture-dealer’s conjectures 
were groping. 

“ Tell you what it is, Mortimer,” said he to his son one evening 
after Copley’s departure. “ Mr. Dalton, in years gone by, must 
have got the better of this young chap’s father, or grandfather, 
in some money dealings. Dalton’s evidently a shrewd, capable 
man — the kind of man that some person would be likely enough 
to accuse of sharp practice. You know what Mr. Hughes is : he 
has his good points, Mortimer; but don’t mention him and a 
bargain in the same breath, because I’d as soon have a baby in 


218 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


long clothes to deal with ! Well, that being the case, nothing 
more likely than that other members of the family might be 
similarly feeble-minded, and having walked up to their middles in 
a bog of spekilation with their eyes open, screamed out that Mr. 
Dalton led ’em there! Did you notice what the young chap said 
about ill-gotten gains, and that his family might ha’ been rich at 
this day if others had been as scrup’lously honorable as them, 
and all that sort of bunkum ? Now, what’ll you bet that when they 
heard of Dalton having made this big pile out in the States, they 
didn’t write and try to revive some old claim on him ? The young 
chap’s name being mentioned in a lawyer’s letter and all — seems 
to me that the thing’s as plain as the nose on your face ! Anyway, 
search high, search low, there’s no such name as Copley, nor Hughes 
neither, to be found among your mother’s family.” 

“ Shouldn’t wonder if you were right, dad,” answered Mortimer, 
who had been listening attentively ; “ and, of course, if any one 
made such an application to Mr. Dalton, he’d only get a rap over 
the knuckles for his pains. But, ’pon my word, I don’t know. I 
can hardly believe they’d try it on. It would be such a iolly soft 
thing to do '!” 

“Soft! Far be it that I should wish to bear ’ard on a fellow- 
creature, Mortimer ; but there is, at times, a softness about Mr. 
Hughes, in matters of a pecun’ary nature, that outrages your feel- 
ings as a man.” 

“ Still,” said Mortimer, after reflecting for a few minutes, “ I 
don’t think, somehow, that Mr. Hughes’s softness usually takes 
the form of asking for anything. That would be more in Copley’s 
way, I fancy. And, look here, dad ; I’ve an idea ! We’ve agreed 
that it’s best for me to be open and above board with all the family. 
Here am I ; my relationship to Mr. Dalton is so-and-so ; capable 
of proof in any court of law. I have nothing to hide nor to scheme 
for ; I’m ready to hold out the right hand of fellowship to any of 
the other heirs-at-law ; and it may save attorney’s expenses at a 
future period, and nip any danger of Chancery proceedings in 
the bud, for us to understand each other at once ! That’s about 
the ground we take, isn’t it, dad ?” 

“There or thereabouts. With the proviso that we take no 
ground whatever in black and white, but confine ourselves to word 
of mouth, and not too much of that.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


219 


“Very good. Well, now, there’s this daughter of Dr. Kirby’s 
that Coney met at Vevey. He reports that Copley and Mrs. 
Armour — that’s her name — were mighty intimate and confidential. 
In fact, there was a good deal of philandering going on between 
’em. Now, it strikes me that she’s as likely as not to be able to 
give you a clue to the mention of Claude Copley in that letter Coney 
got sight of. And what’s to prevent us going to see her ? ‘ Here 
am I ; my relationship to Mr. Dalton is so-and-so,’ et cetrer ! She’s 
in London. Besides, Coney considers her sharp and scheming. 
It would be well to look her up, I think. What do you say, 
dad ?” 

Mr. Hopkins seeing no objection to this proposal, they resolved 
to carry it out without delay. 

The London address given by Mrs. Armour to Coney, to the 
Ketterings, and to a few other persons was that of her sister 
Miss Kirby’s house. The house was Miss Kirby’s own proper- 
ty, bequeathed to her by her father, together with three similar 
houses, the rents of which constituted the chief part of her in- 
come. 

Looked at purely from the point of view of an address — some- 
thing to be written on an envelope or stamped at the head of 
a sheet of paper — it was unexceptionable, and even attractive. 
“ No. 5, Clifford Villas, Clifford Gardens, W.,” looked uncommon- 
ly well ; but viewed in the light of a concrete dwelling that 
you had to live in, it was less satisfactory. Clifford Gardens 
was a short street branching off at right angles from a road on 
the borders of a canal, and Clifford Villas turned off at right 
angles to this, again, and was, therefore, parallel with the canal, 
and apparently at the back of everything. Clifford Villas con- 
sisted of six groups of semi-detached houses, three on each side 
of the way ; and these houses were so extraordinarily small that, 
surveying them from the outside, one was impelled to imagine 
the front opening all at once like that of a doll’s house, and the 
two upper windows as being a sham, unjustified by any intersect- 
ing floors. The strip of ground between the street and the house 
— dignified by the name of the front garden — was so narrow 
that the railings appeared to be poking their spikes in at the 
parlor window. And the street itself was so unfrequented 
that some squares chalked a week ago on the pavement, for 


220 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


the popular game of hopscotch, remained there unobliterated by 
passing feet, and slowly disappeared by the mere action of the 
weather. 

But No. 5, Clifford Villas, was an excellent address, neverthe- 
less, and Mrs. Armour retained it for the greater part of her 
correspondence, even after she had ceased to live there constant- 
ly herself. The deadly dulness of the place Juliet would have 
endured for a time in the interests of her pocket; but the inquis- 
itorial nature of her sister’s zeal for her spiritual welfare was par- 
ticularly irksome to Mrs. Armour, who liked to keep the outside 
blinds of her soul down, and hated a rush of open dealing, as some 
persons have a horror of fresh air. Moreover, Clifford Villas was 
so remote from every place that she wanted to go to — whether for 
business or pleasure — that she found the cost of locomotion 
serious, not to mention the loss of time. She therefore looked 
about for a lodging in a more central position, and, profiting by 
some information she had obtained from Miss Jenks at Monplaisir, 
she hired a bedroom in the boarding-house near Red Lion Square 
which that lady patronized. 

To her sister’s complaints and remonstrances she opposed the 
necessity of her being able to accept dinner and other evening in- 
vitations. 

“You know, dear, if I go to the Ketterings’, for instance, my 
cab costs me a mint of money, and I don’t get home before mid- 
night. And I must go into society a little. It is absolutely neces- 
sary.” 

“ I shouldn’t think anybody you ought to visit lives near Red 
Lion Square, Juliet,” answered her sister, querulously. “I know 
papa and mamma would not have allowed any of us to visit in such 
a locality. I am not in a position to entertain in my own house, 
nor do I go into society ; but I would rather inhabit a desert than 
sink to Red Lion Square.” 

“ Well, for the matter of that, you do inhabit a desert, so I 
suppose you are content,” rejoined Mrs. Armour, coolly. Then, 
remembering that she desired her sister to receive letters for her, 
and to be useful in various other ways, she explained, in a more 
conciliatory tone, that it was just because Red Lion Square was so 
completely out of the beat of their friends and acquaintances that 
she chose it. No one of her friends would know anything about 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


221 


her lodging there for a week or so at a time. The place was 
cheap ; and if any one called on Mrs. Armour at Clifford Villas, 
the servant was to be instructed to say that she was visiting friends 
in Dorsetshire, but was expected to return the next day. Miss 
Kirby hesitated to give this order until she had consulted Father 
Anselm — otherwise known as the Reverend J. A. Lawny — who 
would decide whether the untruth were necessary or excusable, 
and whether it came under the category of a material lie, an 
evasion, or an equivocation. But Mrs. Armour settled the point 
by privately giving the maid-of-all-work a shilling, which at once 
convinced her of the venial nature of the action. 

Thus, when Mr. Hopkins and his son appeared one afternoon 
at No. 5, Clifford Villas, Matilda was beginning to inform them 
glibly that “ Mrs. Harmour was away in Dorsetshire,” when Miss 
Kirby opened the parlor door and inquired what was the gentle- 
men’s business. 

She was like her sister Juliet ; but there seemed a greater differ- 
ence between their ages than the ten years which really divided 
them. Miss Kirby’s nose was at a sharper angle with her face, 
her eyes lighter, her skin more pallid, and her figure leaner than 
Juliet’s, and her whole aspect had something eager and anxious. 
Her gray hair was dry and straggling, and rebelled against the 
attempt to keep it smoothly tucked back beneath a triangular 
piece of black lace, whereof one point rested on Miss Kirby’s 
forehead, and the other two were fastened beneath her chin. Her 
dress was black ; long and trailing in the skirt, tight and ascetic 
in the bodice, and she wore around her neck, for her sole orna- 
ment, a string of large ivory beads, supporting a cross of the 
same material. 

Mortimer nudged his father in the ribs, and whispered to him 
that this must be Mrs. Armour’s sister, Dr. Kirby’s eldest daughter; 
and that now they were there, they might as well introduce them- 
selves, and get all they could out of the old lady. This Mr. 
Hopkins proceeded to do, with the utmost politeness at his com- 
mand ; and as soon as Miss Kirby understood who they were, she 
invited father and son to walk into the parlor. 

Piety is by no means incompatible with curiosity. Perhaps, 
indeed, the former rather stimulates the latter by furnishing it 
with a ground for self-approval ; since it must clearly be praise- 


222 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


worthy to be interested in the state of your neighbor’s soul, 
and the most minute and seemingly insignificant facts may bear 
weightily on that subject. Miss Kirby, at any rate, was decided- 
ly curious; and she listened to all that the Hopkinses said with 
great eagerness. 

Juliet had, of course, informed her of their Uncle Christopher’s 
present fortunes. But many little touches of detail, omitted or ig- 
nored by Juliet, were narrated by Mr. Hopkins, on his friend Coney’s 
authority, and drunk in with the utmost avidity by Miss Kirby. 

But the interest of all that the Hopkinses could impart to Miss 
Kirby was surpassed a hundredfold by the revelation she was pres- 
ently able to make to them ; for after being told of the mention 
of Claude Copley’s name in the letter to Mr. Dalton, and, fur- 
ther, that he lived with an uncle and an old grand-aunt who came 
from Marypool, and were called Hughes, she suddenly clasped 
her hands together, and exclaimed, “ Why, that was the name of 
the girl — our governess ! And I remember quite well that she 
was a native of Marypool.” 

And then she narrated — naturally from the Kirbeian point of 
view — the story of the elopement. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Barbara was alone in the sitting-room; Aunt Judith had not 
yet dismissed her school for the afternoon, and William was out. 
He had gone to seek an interview with Barker, the picture-dealer, 
and to solicit from* him a further advance of money. It was an 
errand which pained and mortified him to the quick, for he knew 
by experience that the man would not spare him, and that, although 
he would probably dole him out a few pounds, they would be given 
with words and looks hard to bear and bitter to remember. But 
the interview must be faced — the humiliation was inevitable. 
There was no other resource open to him, let him look which 
way he would. And there were age and helplessness depending 
on him at home; for Aunt Judith, though of indomitable spirit, 
began to feel the weight of years, and Claude was still idle. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


223 


Barbara had returned from her day’s teaching, and sat musing 
with clasped hands in the darkening twilight. She was thinking 
of many things; but chiefly, and most anxiously, what she could 
do to earn a little more money, and so lighten her uncle’s bur- 
dens, when Larcher came into the room, and said, 

“ Here’s a letter for you, Miss Barbara.” 

“ A letter! I did not hear the postman.” 

“No. It was brought by hand. One of them commissioners 
left it. It’s a’most too dark for you to see to read it. Shall I 
light the lamp ?” 

“ Not vet, Larcher. I can see by the firelight. There’s no one 
waiting?” 

“ There’s no one waiting, Miss Barbara,” and the old servant 
softly withdrew. 

Barbara, when she took the letter in her hand, was surprised to 
find it rather bulky. She did not know the handwriting, but as 
the firelight glistened on a large, firmly outlined red seal, she saw 
on it an impression which seemed familiar to her. It was a head 
of Pallas Athene, very finely cut ; and she remembered all at once 
that her uncle had, last Sunday, seen and admired such a one in a 
ring on the finger of Mr. Fritz Hofmann. 

“ Perhaps Olga and Ida are going to resume their lessons !” 
thought Barbara, opening the letter impulsively. She knelt down 
by the firelight to look at it, but after reading the first few lines 
the hand which held the letter sank down by her side, and she 
lifted up her head, and gazed straight before her like one amazed. 

Then after a few minutes she started up and hastily lighted a 
little colored taper that stood on a side-table, and, spreading out 
the letter before her, and leaning her arms on the table, with her 
clenched hands pressed against her mouth, began to read. 

This was the letter : 

“My dear Miss Copley, — I have been hesitating for some time past 
whether I should write or speak to you. To speak would, I think, have 
been easier to me. But, perhaps, writing leaves you more free to deliberate 
calmly upon your answer, and not to give it hastily upon the first impulse. If 
I am right in supposing this, I have been right in preferring written to spoken 
words ; since I cannot for a moment flatter myself that you are prepared at 
once to receive favorably what I have to say. I am, indeed, very doubtful 
whether it will not take you by surprise altogether, because every one who has 


224 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


the happiness to know Barbara Copley must perceive that among the quali- 
ties of her rare nature is an absolute unconsciousness of her own attractions. 

“Before I say more, I will endeavor to incline you to give me at least a 
patient hearing by the most powerful recommendation I can offer to you — 
our uncle, Mr. Hughes, to whom I spoke before venturing to address you, as- 
sured me that if I could gain your favorable consideration for my suit, I should 
have no opposition to fear from him.” 

At this point Barbara leaned back in her chair, with her hands 
clasped on the top of her head, breathing quickly with parted 
lips. But after a little while, and with a visible effort, she forced 
herself to resume the reading of the letter. 

“Of course, your uncle gave me no clue as to what answer I might hope 
from you. We did not even touch on that point. With you alone rests the 
decision. To your decision, be it what it may, I shall bow, with the full con- 
viction that it is dictated by sincerity and goodness. 

“I will strive to be at least sincere, and will tell you frankly that the feel- 
ing with which I regard you is no sudden overwhelming passion that bears 
down reason and judgment with the force of a whirlwind. It is true that 
from the first moment I saw your face amid the squalor of a crowded Lon- 
don street, you have remained in my mind as the ideal of womanly refine- 
ment. That impression was made at once and forever. But all the best 
powers of my mind, instead of being overborne or set aside, have steadily 
supported and confirmed the admiration you inspired on a furnier acquaint- 
ance. 

“ To see you in your own home was to love you. The hope of winning you 
to be my wife has gradually become the leading motive of my life — the goal 
to which all my plans and ambitions for the future are directed. I know that 
it is impossible you should in any degree reciprocate my feelings at present. 
I know perfectly well that you do not love me; and I suspect you have never 
given a thought to the possibility that I might love you. But if you love no 
one else, will you not let me try to win you ? I will not be importunate. I 
will not press my suit at the risk of ruffling your tranquillity for a moment. 
Your kindness — if I may dare to hope for it at all — must be earned by pa- 
tient devotion. 

“As to outward circumstances, one thing I am bound to mention at once. 
You may have chanced to hear— from the Ketterings, or elsewhere — that I 
am the heir of a rich bachelor brother of my mother’s. This is not the case. 
I have no expectations whatever from Mr. Arthur Maddison. I possess an 
independent income, bequeathed to me by my father — an income which will 
enable me to surround my wife with most of the things which give grace and 
refinement to the material circumstances of daily life, but with very few which 
minister to splendor or ostentation. I am of an age to choose for myself and 
to have my choice respected. And, 1 clieve me, you would be sure of a warm 



WObKIVIS 




THAT WILD WHEEL. 


225 


and affectionate welcome from my mother, should I ever have the happiness 
to present you to her. She has a mind and heart thoroughly capable of ap- 
preciating yours. 

“ I do not ask you to decide the momentous question I lay before you at 
once. But what I do ask is this : 

“ Let me see you frequently in your home ; grant me admittance to your 
family circle as a familiar friend ! And learning thus how much good influ- 
ence you have upon my life — what an ennobling thing it is to aspire to your 
love — you may, perhaps, some day give me a little affection, as I am sure you 
would bestow some on any creature you had benefited ; for there is ever a 
strain of compassion in the tenderness of the best and purest women for 
which we men have occasion to thank God from the cradle to the grave. 

“ One word in conclusion. 

“ Do not banish me from your presence, whatever be your final answer to 
my suit. If I may not hope for your love, give me at least your friendship. 
I will try to deserve it. 

“ Yours, with unalterable reverence and regard, 

“ Friedrich Hofmann.” 

Almost before Barbara bad read the last words of this letter, 
the noise of children’s feet and voices in the passage announced 
that school was over for the day. And she had barely time to 
thrust the letter into her pocket before Aunt Judith came into 
the parlor, and sank down wearily in her arm-chair. 

“ You should not take the taper to read by, Barbara,” she said, 
noticing the pale flame on the little table by the window. “ Blow 
it out. And, unless you have something special to do, we will 
not have the lamp just yet. I shall be glad to rest my eyes and 
my head awhile.” 

“Have you a headache, Aunt Judith?” asked Barbara, seating 
herself beside her aunt’s knee in the shadow of the great chair. 

“ No, child ; not a headache. But I get dazed and tired with 
the noise. I am growing old, Barbara : that’s the truth. But 
don’t say a word to William.” 

Barbara took her grand-aunt’s hand between her own — the 
brave, helpful hand that had led her orphaned childhood so ten- 
derly. And there was silence in the little room. The girl fan- 
cied that Aunt Judith had fallen into a doze, and remained mo- 
tionless lest she might disturb her. But by and by Judith 
spoke ; and the tone of her voice showed her to be wakeful. 

“ I’m very anxious about Claude, child. I’m afraid he is not go- 
ing on well.” 

15 


226 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Barbara pressed the hand she still held, and waited breathlessly 
to hear more. For some time the conviction had been growing 
in her mind that Claude would never be strong again. He did 
not complain of illness ; and, indeed, almost resented any display 
of solicitude from his sister. But there was a look in his face 
which pierced her heart with pity. 

But it was not of Claude’s health that Aunt Judith was think- 
ing. By degrees she admitted to Barbara that Jhe was idle, ex- 
travagant, and selfish. “ From thoughtlessness, you know, Bar- 
bara — pure thoughtlessness,” she added, as though in compunction 
for having uttered these hard truths. And the poor soul, feeling 
the solace of confiding in Barbara, went on to confess that she 
had discovered Claude to have made some little debts in the 
neighborhood ; and that more than once, when his uncle had 
thought him asleep in bed, Larcher had sat up for him, and he 
had returned very late, and not always quite sober. 

Barbara released her aunt’s hand, and clasped her own tightly 
together. “ Debts !” she murmured. “ That is the most terrible 
of all ! What shall we do ? What can we do ?” 

Aunt Judith hastily touched Barbara’s lips to silence her, for 
she heard William putting his key into the lock, and his step 
in the passage ; and then the choking, asthmatic cough which 
sometimes assailed him. The two women sat still, knowing that 
any offer of help or sympathy distressed him at such moments. 
And after a while the paroxysm passed, and he came into the 
room. 

It was almost dark, then, by this time ; but as he entered, a 
flickering flame leaped up and shone upon his face and figure — 
the former so lined with care, the latter so bent and weary ! But 
the old noble gentleness shone out of his eyes, and he said, “ Good- 
evening, dears. How pleasant and welcoming the fire looks ! It 
is the best of all illuminations to come home to,” in a cheerful 
voice, which to Barbara’s car was more pathetic than any com- 
plaining wail that could be uttered. 

She sprang up, and, taking her uncle’s head between her hands, 
gently pulled it towards her, and kissed his forehead with a long 
pressure of the lips. Then she ran out of the room ; and pres- 
ently Larcher, appearing with the lamp, brought Miss Barbara’s 
love, and if she were not quite ready by tea-time, would they be- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


227 


gin without her? For she had some writing to do, and had gone 
into the schoolroom. 

“ We will wait for Miss Barbara, Larcher,” said Miss Hughes. 

Then William sat down, and told the story of his visit to Mr. 
Barker, and listened to Aunt Judith’s fiery denunciations of that 
prosperous dealer, which William rather encouraged than checked, 
knowing them to be a real assistance to her in bearing her share 
of the family troubles. 

“But,” said he at length, with his half-sad, half - humorous 
smile, “ I have got ten pounds out of him. So I think penal ser- 
vitude, with a fortnightly flogging, might meet the justice of the 
case this time, Aunt Judith. Hanging had better be reserved for 
a future occasion, especially as it has the disadvantage of being 
impossible to repeat, and putting a final stopper on the vindictive 
pleasures of the imagination.” 

“Ten pounds, my dear! Ten pounds will not go very far,” 
said Aunt Judith, reflecting, with an inward tremor, that Claude’s 
debts, which she knew of — and there might, alas! be more — 
amounted to more than half that sum. 

“ They will go so far as to be out of sight before long,” an- 
swered William. “But what is Barbara about all this time? I 
don’t like her working after hours in this way. She has been 
looking pale lately.” 

“ She is always pale, William. So was her mother before her, 
even in the days when she was young and happy and healthy.” 

“ Ay, but that was a transparent pallor with a light of life be- 
hind it. I fancy, too, that she is more depressed and silent than 
formerly.” 

Aunt Judith rubbed her chin nervously, and, glancing once or 
twice at her nephew, leaned forward as though she were about to 
speak, and then drew back again and was silent, in an undecided 
fashion, very unusual with her. But Barbara’s presence now 
made a diversion. 

The tea-tray was brought in, and Barbara poured out the tea 
as usual, and washed the cups afterwards, and ranged them in the 
cupboard, and talked and listened — all as usual. 

Claude was not present. He was very often from home now. 
He had picked up some new acquaintances through young Green 
and Toller, and he declared that it was highly necessary for him 


228 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


to see people, and to be seen by them, in order to push his fort- 
unes. He had also come across Mrs. Armour; but of this ren- 
contre he had not thought it necessary to say anything at home, 
alleging to himself that his uncle had taken a prejudice against 
her, and that his grand-aunt and sister would be sure to follow 
that lead. 

In spite of all their good-will and courage, it was impossible 
but that Judith and William Hughes should betray to Barbara’s 
watchful observation some of the anxiety for the future which 
weighed upon them. Aunt Judith complained of being tired, 
and went to rest early, attended by Larcher ; and her voice might 
have been heard for more than an hour afterwards holding forth 
to that faithful confidant in the privacy of her own room. Among 
the many services which Larcher had rendered to the Hughes 
family, none perhaps had been more valuable than her acting as 
a safety valve to carry off Aunt Judith’s superfluous vivacity and 
loquacity. 

When the uncle and niece were together in the little parlor, 
William took up a book ; but rather, as it seemed, by way of an 
excuse for silent thinking than because he wanted to read, for his 
eyes were oftener fixed upon the glowing coals in the grate before 
him than on the page in his hand. 

Barbara put down her needlework and drew a chair near her 
uncle’s, but a little behind it. “ Are you seeing faces in the fire, 
Uncle William?” she asked, softly. 

“ Faces and places, castles and ruins, Barbara,” he answered, 
with a mournful smile. “ Many ruins. When one is young, one 
sees buildings rising; but when youth is gone, those broken walls 
and hollows mean the slow crumbling of decay.” 

“ I have had a letter, Uncle William,” said Barbara ; and she 
gave Hofmann’s letter over her uncle’s shoulder into his hand. 

William’s quick, keen sight took instant note of the seal, which 
he recognized as Barbara had done, and he unfolded the letter, 
not tremulously, but with a strong, quick movement of the fin- 
gers that betrayed excitement. As his eyes fell on the first words 
he paused and said, “ Am I to read it all, Barbara?” 

“ Yes, all.” 

He read it deliberately, earnestly, with a set, resolute expression 
on his face which it did not often wear, but which, when it was 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


229 


seen there, seemed to belong so naturally to his massive features 
and square masculine brow. Steadily and silently he read on to 
the end. Then he refolded the letter, keeping the old creases 
with automatic neatness of touch, put it back into its cover, and 
said, without turning round to look at her, “ It is a good letter, 
Barbara.” 

“ It is a generous letter, Uncle William. You — you knew he 
was going to write it, he says.” 

“ I knew what was in his mind ; but I told him from the first 
that he must appeal to you direct. This is a matter on which 
your two souls must speak face to face, shutting out all other 
voices.” 

“ It seems very wonderful and surprising,” said Barbara, in so 
low a voice as to be barely audible. “ I never dreamed that such 
a thing was possible.” 

“ It will not seem quite so wonderful to any one else, Barbara,” 
remarked her uncle, with a little smile playing for a moment over 
his brooding face. 

There was a long silence, only broken by the dropping of some 
hot ashes on the hearth. And at length William, whose expres- 
sion had settled into a grave melancholy, said, 

“ Well, Barbara, you must answer this letter, my dear.” 

“I have answered it, Uncle William.” 

He turned round now quickly, but she kept her face averted. 

“You have answered it?” 

“ Yes. I wrote my answer, and copied it roughly while I was 
in the schoolroom, and Larcher carried it to the post. It is my 
doing. No one has persuaded me ; no one has advised me. Here 
is my answer, Uncle William. It is very short.” 

She drew a half-sheet of paper from her pocket, and this time 
the hand with which her uncle took it was not perfectly steady. 

Barbara had written : 

“The candor and truthfulness of your own words persuade me that you 
will recognize the truthfulness of mine when I tell you that no distant sus- 
picion of your feeling had crossed my mind. I can never be more highly 
honored than by the regard in which you hold me. I can never be more 
grateful than I am to you for the noble generosity with which you write. It 
would be a base return for both were I knowingly to deceive you by a sylla- 
ble ; and yet, perhaps my poor words may fail to convey to you all the truth. 


230 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


What I would try to say is this : I have, as you divine, no sentiment of love 
for you, but I like you, I respect you, and I trust you. I am writing from 
my own heart, unaided by any better wisdom. I dare not promise yet to be 
your wife. I will not now accept a promise from you. If you believe that 
you would too seriously risk your happiness by coming here without a firm, 
clear bond between us, I shall understand that you act well and honorably 
to say farewell at once before more sorrow comes to you. Already the thought 
that I may not see you again for years is a sad one. You see I am trying to 
be frank and true from the bottom of my soul. But you are older, wiser, 
more experienced than I. Decide ! Barbara Copley.” 

William drew the girl near him, and, looking down on her 
drooping head, said, 

“ He will take this letter to be encouraging, Barbara.” 

“Yes; but I think he will not assume more encouragement 
than my words, taken simply and plainly, convey.” 

He raised her face with one hand beneath the chin, and looked 
wistfully into her eyes. She looked back at him brightly and 
steadily. 

“ It would be what people call a great match for you, Barbara,” 
he said. 

“ You would be glad, Uncle William ?” 

“That is a point you need not now consider.” 

“But you would? You like him — you think well of him?” 

“ I think very well of him. How well, judge you, who know 
I should not fear to trust him with you, Barbara.” 

“ And Aunt Judith would be happy.” 

“ But you, Barbara — you have no misgivings?” 

“ Only, lest I should not make a full return for so much good- 
ness.” 

“You have no regrets?” 

Barbara suddenly dropped her face, and hid it on his breast. 

“What have I to regret but leaving you and Aunt Judith?” 
she murmured. “ But you know I should never go far from you. 
It would be for your happiness. It would relieve you from all 
care for me. I could help Claude.” 

“ But, Barbara, my child, it is your life that is in question ; it 
is your happiness that is at stake !” 

Barbara looked up. “ And Mr. Hofmann’s, Uncle William,” 
she said. “ And, perhaps, you know, after all, when he comes 
here oftener, and sees more of me, and finds that I cannot give 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


231 


him all the warm affection he has a right to expect — perhaps then 
he will see that he has made a mistake, and we shall be in the 
end good friends, and nothing more !” 

William Hughes smoothed the hair from her forehead with his 
favorite action, and looked at her with a tender, amused smile, as 
he answered, “No, Barbara; to say the truth, I do not anticipate 
that. I must warn you fairly that I do not think Hofmann will 
cry off, if you give him the chance to woo you. You are such a 
deep dissembler, Barbara, that those who know you best, love 
you most dearly. No, no ; if poor Hofmann is to have a chance 
of escape, you must keep him at a distance.” 

“ Have I done wrong to write to him as I did ?” asked Bar- 
bara, quickly. 

“You have done as you always do, Barbara. You have been 
true, and loyal, and simple. And King Solomon in all his glory 
could not teach you any better wisdom than that.” 

“Good-night, Uncle William.” 

“ God bless thee, my dear, dear child.” 

Barbara kissed him, and had reached the door, when she turned 
back to say, “You would be glad, Uncle William? It cannot 
alter anything to say so now. I wrote on my own responsibility. 
You knew nothing of it. But say the truth now — you would be 
glad, Uncle William ?” 

“ I think there is nothing in this world that could make me so 
glad, Barbara.” 

She flew into his arms with a little cry — “Oh, thank you from 
my heart ! That was all I wanted. I am very happy.” 

But when Barbara was in her own room, she locked the door 
and took from a drawer a folded handkerchief with some dried 
lavender, and an envelope inside it. And in the envelope there 
was a bunch of withered flowers, and a scrap of paper, with these 
pencilled words : 

“ I have been up to the head of the stream this morning to get you the 
forget-me-not you wanted ; I think they are the finest hereabouts.” 

“G. H.” 

And Barbara sat beside her little table, and laid her cheek 
down on the paper; and the paper was wet with tears. 


232 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

The nearest surviving relatives of Mr. Christopher Dalton are 
sufficiently different from each other in various ways ; and it 
cannot be said that they are united by the common band of fam- 
ily attachment. Dora Kirby and her sister Juliet, Mortimer Hop- 
kins, and Amy Lambton all regard each other with suspicion 
and mistrust. Lady Lambton, indeed, comes at some distance 
behind the others in point of kinship ; and does not belong to 
the Dalton side of the family at all ; but she will not allow that 
that lessens her chances of inheriting. Sally Stringer’s relation- 
ship to the rich man is, in point of fact, precisely the same as 
Lady Lambton’s — namely, that of first-cousin once removed. But 
somehow she does not seem to any of them to be a formidable 
competitor.; whereas Lady Lambton is admitted to be “in the 
running,” as Mr. Hopkins puts it. 

But, however conflicting may be the various hopes, schemes, and 
claims of the Kirbys, the Hopkinses, and the Shortways — however 
antagonistic may be their secret feelings towards one another, a 
subject has arisen in which they display a unanimity of sentiment 
absolutely uncheckered by any shade of dissent — the subject of 
Charles Copley’s relationship to that Winifred Hughes who was 
the original cause of Mr. Dalton’s estrangement from his family. 

They are one and all convinced that the Hugheses have been 
making an underhand attempt to get money from Mr. Dalton. 
The mention of Claude Copley’s name in the lawyer’s letter is 
thus easily explained. Dalton had evidently been making pri- 
vate inquiries about Winifred’s family ; and it was not to be 
supposed he should do that, after all these years, unless they had 
been forcing themselves on his attention. 

Any one who should have concluded the daughters of the late 
Dr. Kirby to be deficient in moral indignation, from the tone in 
which they spoke of their Uncle Christopher, must perceive, on 
hearing them talk now about the Hugheses and the Copleys, that 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


233 


there is abundance of indignation ; only that it is all somewhat 
arbitrarily directed against the injured family, instead of against 
the author of their misfortunes. 

Old Hopkins begins to question whether Mr. William Hughes’s 
softness in the matter of bargains be not a deep assumption of 
simplicity to throw him (Hopkins) off his guard. Mortimer does 
not quite accept this idea, but is willing to attribute any amount 
of greed and falsity to young Copley, whom he considers — al- 
though having undeniably a gentlemanly way with him, even to 
the point of sometimes treating you like the dirt beneath his 
feet — to be deemed selfish and sly. But Mortimer exonerates 
Miss Copley from all blame. Miss Copley is above suspicion. 
Her brother does not appreciate Miss Copley, who hovers o’er 
him, Mortimer says, with angel wings ! And he lias been heard 
to say that he isn’t going to be dictated to by a chit of a girl 
like Barbara, who knows nothing of life. 

Lady Lambton, for her part, is inclined to give Barbara credit 
for being at the bottom of whatever plots are going. Miss Cop- 
ley is one of those demure, soft-mannered women whom Amy 
always instinctively distrusts, as being so opposed to her own 
frank, impulsive nature. 

One result of the excitement about the Copley question is the 
despatch, by the next mail, of several voluminous letters to Mr. 
Christopher Dalton, sent under cover to his business agent in New 
York. This is the only address Mr. Coney can give them, as 
Dalton’s movements are very uncertain ; and he thinks nothing 
of starting on a journey of a thousand miles at a moment’s notice. 
But the Kirbys and Lady Lambton shrewdly suspect that Coney 
knows how to get at Mr. Dalton more directly, but that he re- 
serves this information for his friends the Hopkinses. 

Lady Lambton’s attempt to learn Dalton’s address through the 
assistance of Mr. Perikles Rhodonides has failed. But she does 
not regret having made it ; for Rhodonides proves to be very 
appreciative, and full of sympathy. 

It matters the less that he can give her no information about 
Dalton, because the Hopkinses, father and son, wait personally on 
her ladyship, in pursuance of their plan of putting Mortimer’s po- 
sition plainly before the family ; and show no reluctance to give 
her the New York agent’s address. 


234 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ My mother, Mrs. Shortway,” says Amy, “ was Mr. Dalton’s 
dearest cousin — more to him than a sister; and she has urged me 
to write to him on her behalf. My mother is so extraordinarily 
unworldly that she attaches no importance at all to the fact of 
Mr. Dalton’s great wealth ; and sometimes declares she does not 
even believe in it. Now that,” adds Lady Lambton, with a spark- 
ling smile, “ is very charming ; but I frankly own it is not my 
case. Perhaps the younger generation is more prosaic ; or I am 
of a less disinterested nature. At all events, I make no pretence 
to romance in the matter. And I candidly tell you that I should 
be very glad indeed if Mr. Dalton were to remember my mother’s 
side of the family in his will ; I think it would be only fair that 
lie should ; and I sincerely hope he will.” 

“ Does you credit, ma’am — my lady,” says Hopkins, senior, 
warmly. 

And when they leave the house, he observes to his son that 
Lady Lambton has a deuced deal of sound common-sense, and is, 
moreover, a spanking fine woman ; but that what he, John Hop- 
kins, particularly admires about her is the absence of humbug. 

They have talked over with my lady the subject of the common 
danger from the Hughes family, and have agreed very well about 
it — except that Lady Lambton has, in Mortimer’s opinion, been 
too much “ down” on Miss Copley. But this, he reflects, is a 
trait common to her sex, and merely denotes one charming wom- 
an’s jealousy of another. 

So the poor little household, all unconscious of what is going 
on, is discussed, and blamed, and suspected, and calumniated, and 
gossiped about — above all, gossiped about ! — in various circles, 
from Lady Lambton and the Ketterings to the boarding-house 
near Red Lion Square, where Miss Jenks is seeing London Society. 

Miss Jenks has as yet seen but little more of London Society 
than is comprised between the four walls of the genteel and inex- 
pensive establishment (so she describes it in her letters to North- 
ampton) where she is lodging. And she finds that section of 
London more inaccessible in the matter of loans, and generally 
sharper and less easy in hand than her fellow-boarders at Mon- 
plaisir. This arises, in fact, from their being poorer than the 
little community at Yevey, and from many of them being a sort 
of social free lances, more or less after the pattern of Miss Jenks 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


235 


herself. One of them — a gentleman with a red nose and tremu- 
lous hands, who describes himself vaguely as being “ connected 
with the Press,” but who is said to be pensioned off by his wife, 
a hard-working actress, who maintains him in idleness on the sole 
condition of his staying away from her — even ventures to solicit 
some temporary pecuniary assistance from her — from her, Aman- 
da Jenks ! The inexorability and promptitude of her refusal ab- 
solutely cow him, and during the whole time afterwards that they 
remain under the same roof he is never known to address another 
word to her, nor to make any kind of comment when she is beinor 
discussed by others beyond the utterance of a low whistle, accom- 
panied by a shrinking movement of the shoulders. In a word, 
Miss Jenks’s native force of character asserts itself in the neigh- 
borhood of Red Lion Square as by the shores of Lake Leman, 
and she holds her own — and as much as she can clutch of other 
people’s — with invincible coolness and gallantry. 

Miss Jenks’s importance is raised in the eyes of her fellow- 
boarders by her intimacy with Mrs. Armour, who engages a bed- 
room in the boarding-house for two months, and has the liberty, 
by special bargain and agreement, of taking her meals there at a 
fixed price whenever she pleases. It being quite vain to think 
of keeping Miss Jenks at a distance by cool and reserved be- 
havior, Mrs. Armour accepts the position, and admits her to a 
certain amount of familiarity; making use of her in various ways, 
and sharpening her wit upon her in the drawing-room of an even- 
ing ; and in the early days of Mrs. Armour’s sojourn in the board- 
ing-house Mr. Claude Copley appears there several times. Miss 
Jenks does not think Mr. Copley improved by London. He is more 
insolent and irritable in manner than at Yevey ; at once showier 
and less neat in his dress, and painfully thin and hollow-eyed. 

On the first occasion of her seeing him there, Miss Jenks greeted 
him with peculiar emphasis — the term “warmth” is not applica- 
ble to Miss Jenks’s manner at any time; but there are degrees 
of force in it, as there are in the movements of machinery — and 
intrusts him with an elaborate message to his uncle, Mr. Hughes, 
informing him of her present address, and requesting that she 
may have the pleasure of seeing him — to which message Claude 
pays hardly any semblance of attention. 

But as days go by, and Mr. Hughes is not seen, and young 


236 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Copley himself does not reappear, and when Mrs. Armour, on 
being questioned, suddenly displays a cool — not to say bitter — 
temper in speaking of her young friend, and begs to inform Miss 
Jenks that she neither knows nor cares where he is, nor what he 
is doing, then Miss Jenks became convinced that Claude has not 
given her message, and she even suspects that he has not told 
his uncle where she is to be found. 

But Miss Jenks is not to be baffled in that way. As she puts 
it to herself, she is not to be put down while she has arms and 
legs and powers of speech to help herself. She does not know 
the address of Mr. Hughes, but she has treasured up the name 
of the street where his studio is situated, which had been men- 
tioned before her at Yevey, and she intends to call there without 
revealing her intention to any one. 

And all these various sayings_and doings — these assumptions, 
suspicions, and intentions concerning her family and herself — are 
rife while Barbara is waiting in the little sitting-room for the first 
visit of Mr. Fritz Hofmann since her answer to his letter. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

For some reason which lay too deep in her heart for words, 
Barbara had begged her uncle to communicate Mr. Hofmann’s 
proposal, and her own reply to it, to Aunt Judith. 

Barbara came down-stairs unusually early on the morning after 
she had received the important letter, and desired Larcher to 
carry Miss Hughes’s breakfast up to her bedroom, and to per- 
suade her mistress to lie still for an hour or two longer than was 
her custom. “ For,” said Barbara, “ Aunt Judith was very tired 
last night.” 

Larcher accepted the commission with alacrity. And then 
Barbara, hastily murmuring some excuse of having to be at a 
pupil’s house earlier than usual, besought her uncle to tell the 
news to Aunt Judith before he went out. 

“ But I think she would like much better to hear it from you, 
Barbara,” he said. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


237 


“ No, no, Uncle William, pray ! You will tell her, and you 
can show her the letter or read it to her, and — and she will have 
got used to it all before I come home. And I really must go 
now.” 

Barbara had seemed weary and heavy-eyed to Larcher’s shrewd 
observation when she appeared that morning ; but before she left 
the house there was a serene brightness on her face. Barbara 
thought that her uncle looted already less anxious, less haggard 
than he had looked yesterday. Cares, many and pressing, he still 
had; but she knew that her welfare and happiness sat closer to 
his heart than any earthly thing, and that to know her safe from 
storm and stress would make his daily burden lighter, his nightly 
sleep more peaceful, his outlook on the future calm and cheerful. 

“ It would be worth a great sacrifice to achieve that. But I 
make no sacrifice ; I have nothing to give up — nothing but some 
foolish, vain imaginings, no more real than a child’s fairy story. 
I ivas a child. But one cannot believe in fairy tales forever,” 
said Barbara to herself, as she stepped out into the wintry street. 

Miss Hughes, both by her own habitual energy and the loving 
care of those around her, did not suffer from any of that squalid 
negligence in her surroundings which is not the least evil of pov- 
erty to many natures. Her little room was always neat and 
speckless. Whatever small luxuries in the way of furniture it 
had been possible to obtain were accumulated there — an easy- 
chair, a large footstool, a square of carpet on the floor, and so on. 
And — greatest luxury of all — a good fire burned morning and 
evening in the grate whenever the weather was chilly. Miss 
Hughes was the only person in the house who enjoyed the indul- 
gence of a bedroom fire — at least, she had been the only person 
so indulged until Claude’s return from Switzerland. But Claude 
was delicate, and could not do without it, Miss Hughes said. 
And William made no opposition, but only sighed a little in 
thinking of his budget, and bent his head a little lower between 
his shoulders. 

The old lady was to be propped up in bed when her nephew 
went up to speak with her; a crimson woollen shawl, of Bar- 
bara’s knitting, covered her shoulders, and her silken gray curls 
peeped out beneath a showy, neatly frilled cap. (Larcher washed 
and got up all such flue articles for the ladies’ wear, and professed 


238 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


to find great delight in clear-starching and ironing up to a late 
hour every Saturday night.) 

Miss Hughes’s bright, dark eyes rested inquiringly and anxiously 
on William when he first came in, but she saw at a glance that 
his errand, whatever it might be, was not a painful one. 

“Where’s Barbara?” she asked, after they had greeted each other. 

“ Barbara,” he replied, “ had to go to a pupil specially early, 
and left her love for you, and intrusted me with what she other- 
wise would have told you herself.” 

“ Barbara spoils me, and she suborns Larcher to spoil me, too. 
There was no reason why I should not have got up to breakfast. 
But that treacherous old woman marched in with the tray, and 
there I was, helpless !” 

Aunt Judith’s smile, and a little moisture in her eyes, made an 
eloquent gloss on these words. 

“ Barbara has some news for you,” said William. 

The old lady started, and turned sharply so as to see his face 
more distinctly. 

“ Can you guess what it is, aunty ?” 

Judith kept her eyes fixed on him, and answered by the move- 
ment of her lips rather than with her voice — “Marriage?” 

“ Mr. Frederick Hofmann has proposed to her, and — ” 

“ And she has said yes ?” 

“ She has not said no.” 

“That means yes!” cried Aunt Judith, triumphantly clapping 
her hands and sitting upright in her bed with sparkling eyes. 
“Didn’t I know it? Didn’t I tell Barbara within this very week 
that he was no more in love with Lady Lambton than I with the 
muffin-boy? What a turn of fate, William ! Or, rather, what a 
strange dispensation of Providence! Arthur Maddison’s nephew 
— the grandson of old Maddison of Marypool — to choose out our 
poor dear Olive’s daughter from all the world ! And it will be a 
great marriage for our child, William ! She will be rich ; she will 
be released from all this drudgery ; she will be treated daintily 
and cared for delicately ; and then all the rest of the world will 
find out what we knew long ago — that Barbara Copley is a pearl 
of price, and that no setting can be too rich and rare for her. 
When did he speak? Where did she see him? Why did not 
Barbara come and tell me this herself ?” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 239 

William explained that the proposal had been made by letter, 
and answered in the same way ; and that the girl had thought 
Aunt Judith so tired last night that she would not expose her to 
any agitation ; and, by way of cutting short all further question- 
ings, he put Fritz Hofmann’s letter into his aunt’s hand. 

The good soul was subject to little jealousies at any special 
manifestation of the attachment between Barbara and her uncle 
— mere surface jealousies ; for at the bottom of her heart she 
loved Barbara the better for adoring her uncle. But it was no 
petty whim or temper that moved her now. A deeper feeling 
had been stirred ; and she took the letter with an earnest tender- 
ness, as though it were a tangible portion of Barbara’s life ; as, 
indeed, in the truest sense, it was. 

While William was taking her spectacles out of their case for 
her, Aunt Judith said, smiling rather tremulously, “I wonder she 
trusted you with this treasure, William ! How many girls would 
give such a love-letter out of their hands to please an old woman ? 
But Barbara is not like other girls. I suppose she gave it you 
this morning before she went out?” 

“ I have had it in my pocket since last night,” answered Will- 
iam. 

Judith was settling the glasses on her nose as he spoke. But 
at his words she hastily pushed them up, and fixed on him for a 
moment the handsome dark eyes that were still so keen and lus- 
trous. Then she put the glasses in their place, and silently read 
the letter. 

William, seated at the bedside, did not watch her. He watched 
his own thoughts and fancies, so to say ; and it was many a year 
since they had been so bright and sunny. Something of the radi- 
ance of his own lost youth seemed to come back to him as he 
mused on Barbara and her happy future. 

The rustling of the paper in Aunt Judith’s hand made him look 
up, and he saw that she was restoring the letter to its cover. 

“You agree with me, aunty, about Hofmann’s letter, I am 
sure,” he said, warmly. 

Aunt Judith did not take up this point; but asked what Bar- 
bara had thought of it, and how she had replied. And William 
gave her the rough copy of Barbara’s answer. 

“This, too !” said Aunt Judith. “ Is all her answer here?” 


240 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ Every word of it, aunty.” 

Once more Aunt Judith read in silence, and then folded the 
paper again. 

William watched her now, a little surprised at her unwonted 
taciturnity; and, feeling the scrutiny of his eyes, she said, almost 
as if speaking with an effort, “And what did Barbara say of her 
— of Mr. Fritz Hofmann’s letter ?” 

“ She said it was a good and generous letter.” 

“ So it is. Oh yes ; undoubtedly it is that. And Barbara re* 
plies in the same strain. They are both quite — quite model young 
people,” said Aunt Judith, after a curiously long pause. 

But somehow the sparkling triumph and vivacity with which 
she had received the news at first had quite died out of her face. 
She leaned back among her pillows, and turned away her head. 
“ I’ll lie still for another hour, my dear, and think it all over qui- 
etly by myself,” she said to her nephew. “ And, William, tell 
Larcher not to come until I ring. I don’t want Larcher yet.” 

William pressed the little wrinkled brown head that lay out- 
side the coverlet against his cheek, with a caress that had been 
habitual with him from boyhood towards his second mother. 
And he went down-stairs and out of the house, and betook 
himself towards his studio in a tranquilly cheerful frame of 
mind. 

But yet one sad thought obtruded itself among many pleasant 
ones: he could not dismiss a regretful memory of Gilbert Hazel. 
William, unlike Mr. Arthur Maddison, was not impelled by any 
former renunciations of his own to demand and expect sacrifices 
from other people. Rather his experience of sorrow had made 
him tenderly sensitive towards' the sorrows of others, and eager 
to spare them when they might be spared compatibly with honor. 
Hazel had acted rightly in refraining from trying to bind Barbara 
to his hard fortunes, and wasting her youth through long years 
of hope deferred. Hazel had done his duty. But William 
Hughes, in the varied experiences of his life, had not met with 
so many persons to whom duty is the paramount guide and mo- 
tive of conduct as to consider the doing of one’s duty a mere 
matter of course, although he did his own with absolute sim- 
plicity of mind. 

But, perhaps, on observing ch >ely, it will be found that our 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


241 


hardness towards our fellow-creatures is apt to be in an inverse 
ratio to our tenderness towards ourselves. 

Whatever it was that Barbara had dreaded in Aunt Judith’s 
reception of her news — whether it were a too demonstrative exul- 
tation, or a demand that Barbara should be demonstrative, or an 
eager haste to fix the vague terms in which Mr. Hofmann’s pro- 
posal had been answered into a clear and positive engagement — 
whatever anticipations Barbara’s imagination had shrunk from, 
the first few minutes with her grand-aunt after her return home 
in the afternoon entirely reassured her. Aunt Judith was affec- 
tionate, and there was more of clinging softness in her manner 
than she usually displayed towards Barbara. But she accepted 
this great turn of Fortune’s wheel with a dignified, and almost 
sad, composure that was like a soothing balm to the girl’s spirit. 

The point on which Miss Hughes dwelt with the greatest 
complacency in speaking to William (she never mentioned it to 
Barbara at all) was the fact — quite evident to her apprehension — 
that Arthur Maddison had threatened to disinherit his nephew if 
he married Barbara, and that Fritz had disregarded the threat. 

“But, Aunt Judith,” exclaimed William, startled by a sugges- 
tion which had never occurred to himself, “ that would be an 
immense sacrifice to make ! We know our Barbara is worthy of 
it, but — ” 

“ It is the best feature in the whole affair,” said Aunt Judith, 
with sharp decision. “ There is something enthusiastic and un- 
reasonable about that !” 

William laughed, though he was a little puzzled, too. 

“ Well,” said he, “ I won’t degrade Hofmann in your eyes by 
hinting that he is not ready to behave like a lunatic on Barbara’s 
account. But my own notion is that Maddison would not dream 
of laying such a prohibition on the young man as you suspect. 
Why should he? If he ever really loved poor dear Olive, I can 
fancy his receiving her daughter with peculiar tenderness.” 

Aunt Judith had her own private opinion of Arthur Maddison’s 
tenderness; and her own private reason for believing that he had 
a grudge treasured up against the Hughes family. But she said 
no more. Aunt Judith, indeed, appeared to be beaming in these 
days, a very degenerate descendant of Morgan ap Richard, The- 
impetuous-flash-that-lights-up-the-dark-secret-of-the-cloud ; for she 
16 


242 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


was a pattern of reserve and discretion. And whatever clouds or 
secrets there might be, remained unilluminated by her impetu- 
osity. 

It was agreed among them that Claude should be told nothing 
at present of Hofmann’s proposal to his sister. 

“ It is not an engagement,” said Barbara. “ I cannot hold Mr. 
Hofmann bound as yet. I have told him so. It would be 
difficult to make Claude understand, but it would be disloyal 
to Mr. Hofmann to expose him to the risk of being misunder- 
stood.” 

Perhaps, too, Barbara feared that the idea of such an engage- 
ment might fill her brother’s mind with ambitious hopes and wild 
pretensions. 

On the day following that on which she had received and an- 
swered Fritz’s letter, Barbara sat awaiting him in the humble little 
parlor. He had sent a note in the morning, not to Barbara, but 
to Miss Hughes, requesting leave to come that afternoon. He 
knew their hours and their habits, and might he venture to ask 
Miss Hughes to give him some tea about five o’clock? There was 
no written word for Barbara; but the messenger who brought the 
note brought also a small posy of choice flowers — all pure white 
■ — for Miss Copley. 

So Barbara sat awaiting him, with a strange calm upon her ; a 
calm strange to herself ; it was so like weary apathy. 

But when his knock was heard at the door, and his step in the 
narrow entrance, her heart gave a great bound, and she turned on 
a sudden deadly pale. The next moment he was in the room, 
standing near her chair, and looking down on her, as she looked 
up at him with the wide, wistful gaze of a frightened child. It 
all passed in a flash ; almost immediately she rose from her chair, 
and gave him her hand with her accustomed modest grace, and 
thanked him for the flowers. But the look which he had caught 
upon her face when he first entered, remained stamped upon his 
memory ; and he could see it vividly for many a day afterwards 
by simply closing his eyes and thinking of that evening. 

He bowed over the hand she gave him, and, looking at her 
earnestly, held it in his own, perhaps a second or two longer than 
he would have held it yesterday. But that was all. He made 
absolutely no lover-like demonstration. And Barbara, profoundly 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


243 


grateful for the quiet kindness of his bearing, soon recovered her 
self-possession, which had been shaken for the moment. 

“ It is very good of Miss Hughes to let me come,” he said, seat- 
ing himself. “But I trust I am not in her way ? I am not ban- 
ishing her from her own chimney-corner? I shall begin to think 
myself unwelcome, and an intruder altogether, unless Miss Hughes 
will allow me to come and go without disturbing her.” 

Barbara, with a faint color stealing over her cheek — the first 
that had dawned there since Fritz’s entrance — answered that 
Aunt Judith was up-stairs in her own room, and would come down 
presently. “But,” she said, timidly, and yet resolutely, “I want 
to say one word to you, first.” 

He bent forward eagerly, but watching her countenance as he 
had done attentively from the beginning, whenever he could do 
so without embarrassing her, he checked the movement, and an- 
swered simply, 

“ Pray speak.” 

She sat silently, considering for a few moments with downcast 
eyes. Then she looked up, and said, 

“ I have not told my brother Claude of your letter ; and I have 
not told him because the fact that others knew what had passed 
would be — or might come to be — a clog upon your actual free- 
dom of action.” 

He was about to speak, but she stopped him with an entreating 
gesture of her hands. 

“If there is any meaning in the terms we stand on,” she con- 
tinued, “ it is that you are free, as you have left me free, to gauge 
your own feelings — to protect your own future against a rash 
decision.” 

Again he would have interrupted her, and again she raised her 
hands entreatingly. 

“ As to my Uncle William and Aunt Judith, they are different. 
You felt that when you confided in my uncle, as you told me in 
your letter you had done. They stand in the place of parents to 
me. They are incapable of misunderstanding. If my wishes 
could avail, I would have you keep your own counsel altogether 
for a while. But I trust you wholly — I am very inexperienced — 
you must decide.” 

He, in his turn, was silent for a little space. Then he answered, 


244 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“Your wishes ought to avail, and shall avail with me. I will 
go through my probation — ” 

“ It is also my probation,” she said, quickly, with a pleading 
look. Then, emboldened by the quiet sense and honesty in the 
eyes that met her own, she added in a hurried, impulsive man- 
ner, while a deep flush mounted to her forehead, “ I do think so 
well of you — I have so strong a regard and esteem for you, that 
I feel — how shall I say it? — I feel a strange grudge against my- 
self! For I know your goodness deserves — deserves to be better 
requited. But the only thing I can do is to be true — true and 
sincere in every word I say to you.” 

“You could be nothing else! But I must tell you — to touch 
once more on what you have been saying, that I wrote a long 
letter to my mother to-day, and I have always been on terms of 
perfect confidence with my mother. You approve of that? Well, 
as to other people, I will obey your behest — for the present.” 

Barbara thanked him. And presently Aunt Judith came into 
the room, and Fritz greeted her with a quaint deference that sat 
very well upon him, and kissed her hand in foreign fashion. Then 
the tea-tray was brought, and Barbara made the tea, and Fritz 
helped her with the kettle and handed Aunt Judith’s cup; and 
did it all in a simple, homely manner, more like a son of the 
house than a wooer in the presence of his lady-love. And they 
all three sat chatting tranquilly around the table. 

If this behavior on Fritz’s part were the result of calculation, 
it was calculation of a very subtle sort ; for nothing could have 
inclined Barbara so gratefully towards him, or so delicately have 
set her at her ease. 

Neither did Aunt Judith’s demeanor jar, by a too great show 
of feeling, on the placid harmony of the moment. She was kind 
and gracious to the young man, though with a little extra touch 
of dignity, perceptible to those who knew her well. But as she 
saw Fritz and her grandniece gradually falling into their former 
easy tone of friendly conversation, she grew graver and more 
thoughtful, and watched Barbara’s face with a strange, wistful, 
questioning look. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


245 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Mrs. Kettering came Lome in December, bringing Ida with 
ber. Ida was much better, and, as Dr. Slocombe jocularly ob- 
served, need not be sentenced to' tlie Riviera if she would but 
promise to remain well and strong during the rest of the winter. 

Miss Stringer’s visit to the Hugheses’ bouse bad not much in- 
creased ber knowledge of Fritz’s relations with the family, but it 
bad confirmed the generally favorable opinion she bad already 
formed of them. Miss Hughes’s manner was that of a gentle- 
woman ; ber conversation was marked by good sense ; and the 
house — as far as Sally’s sharp eyes bad been able to survey it — 
showed a degree of spotless cleanliness and neatness which in 
itself gives an air of refinement. But it was poor, it was very 
poor. And the atmosphere of poverty, as has been stated, was 
peculiarly distressing to Sally Stringer. Her report of Fritz was 
very satisfactory. She saw no reason to suppose that his mind 
and heart were occupied with Miss Copley or any other young 
lady. And she (Miss Stringer) was strongly of opinion that a 
visit to the Hugheses’ establishment, although calculated to inspire 
great respect for them, was not likely to foster thoughts of love 
and marriage. 

n 

“ Oh, I don’t suppose Fritz wants to marry Miss Copley,” said 
Mrs. Kettering, placidly. “ I never did think so. Augusta fan- 
cies things.” 

Mr. Kettering hoped that there might be no ground for Au- 
gusta’s natural anxieties, but he was far from being so easy on 
the subject as his wife. Nor did her representations that, al- 
though Miss Copley was very nice, you know, she (Gertrude) 
could see nothing in her to fall in love with, reassure him. He 
remarked, with bland superiority, that that was precisely what no 
woman ever ivas able to see in another. 

“ It is quite certain,” said Sally Stringer, who happened to be 
present at one of these conferences, “that if Fritz Hofmann 


246 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


chooses to marry Miss Copley, nobody can prevent him. But if 
I were asked to select the surest means of egging him on, and 
making him obstinately bent on doing it, I should say, ‘ Let the 
family combine to lecture him on the subject, and insist on the 
worldly disadvantages of the match.’ ” 

“ My dear Sally,” said her cousin Philip, who sometimes tried 
his hand at giving her a Roland for her Oliver in the shape of 
a little sarcasm — “ My dear Sally, you will excuse me for observ- 
ing that we are not all endowed with your strong independence 
of character; and that it is not a sufficient reason for us all to 
exclaim ‘Yes’ because others have uttered ‘No.’ ” 

“ My dear Philip,” retorted Sally, very briskly and cheerfully, 
“ you will excuse me for observing that most men have a touch 
in them of the Irishman’s pig, who, if he were required to ad- 
vance straight forward, must be stimulated by an occasional jerk 
of his hind-leg backwards; and that if it were not for the knowl- 
edge of this constitutional peculiarity, we should never be able to 
drive ’em at all — the men, I mean, not the pigs.” 

Mrs. Armour was often at the Ketterings’ house in these days, 
where she had made good her footing, despite the silent hostility 
of Olga and Miss Stringer, who disliked her heartily. Mrs. Ket- 
tering was indifferent at first, but she said she did not see why 
they shouldn’t be civil to Mrs. Armour. And Mr. Kettering, al- 
though he really had a higher standard of taste and manners 
than Juliet Armour was able to reach, was warmly kind to her. 
He was so partly for the sake of her late husband’s family, partly 
because he liked to assume a position of patronage, and Mrs. 
Armour was willing to be patronized for the advancement of her 
present interests. She showed no sign — at least, none that was 
recognizable by Mr. Kettering — of the rankling resentment which 
his well-meant urbanity aroused in her mind. And she flattered 
him not unskilfully. It was not at all unpleasant to be flattered 
by a woman who, at any rate, thought herself charming. 

Moreover, Mr. Kettering was interested in Mrs. Armour’s rela- 
tionship to Christopher Dalton. The possibilities of Mrs. Ar- 
mour’s future were certainly splendid. Of course, they were 
merely possibilities, but they were interesting. Mrs. Armour, 
too, soon discovered that her insinuations against the Huo-hes 
family were not unwelcome to Mr. Philip Kettering, and that he 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


24V 


was a willing listener to her stories of Claude — the position he 
had filled in the boarding-house, his laziness, his pretensions, his 
want of principle, and, latterly, since his return to London, his 
dissipated, idle life. She had heard a great deal about him from 
a person named Hopkins, a vulgar sort of man ; but — oh, Mr. 
Kettering knew who he was? Oh yes, indeed; she believed Mr. 
Ilopkins to be a most highly respectable tradesman. In fact, the 
proof of it was that he distinctly objected to his son’s consorting 
with young Copley, who was, Mrs. Armour feared, a thorough 
mauvais sujet. And much more in the same strain. 

“ A pleasant sort of family connection for your nephew, upon 
rny word !” said Mr. Kettering to his wife. And Mrs. Kettering 
replied that very likely Mrs. Armour exaggerated a great deal ; 
and that, after all, it did not matter much, because she did not 
believe Fritz was going to be silly ; and she wished Augusta 
hadn’t put such things into everybody’s head, for it only made 
one uncomfortable ; and she should never find any one to prepare 
Olga and Ida for Hammerfaust’s lessons next season like Miss 
Copley. And what was she to do without Miss Copley as accom- 
panist if Rosenheim came to play at their house ? And, besides, 
Miss Copley was so quiet and nice and unaffected, and never made 
a fuss. 

Perhaps Mrs. Kettering was unconsciously influenced by a re- 
action of feeling against Mrs. Armour’s growing familiarity in her 
house. She was getting tired of Mrs. Armour, who was not good- 
natured, and spoke ill of people behind their backs, and gave her- 
self airs, and was — in short, was very tiresome. (Tiresome was 
a word of strong disapprobation in Mrs. Kettering’s vocabulary.) 

“ Cat and puss,” murmured Miss Stringer, oracularly, to her- 
self. 

Hitherto, Mrs. Armour and Fritz Hofmann had not met. Not 
that Fritz was less often at the Ketterings’ house than formerly — 
in fact, he came nearly every forenoon to accompany Miss Stringer 
and the girls in their walk; or to escort Olga on a long tramp 
into the country ; Olga being by far the best pedestrian of the 
family. But he did not appear there in the evening, or at what 
Ida called “ company hours.” 

Mr. Kettering thought this circumstance rather suspicious, and 
inquired of his wife and daughters whether Fritz were going much 


248 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


into society this winter. “ No ; very little,” answered Olga, 
quickly. “ But he is working seriously at his book. He often 
talks to me about it.” 

“ Oh, that’s what you’re always colloguing about together, you 
and Fritz?” said Ida. “ I’ve often wondered what you could find 
to talk about.” 

“ I should hardly have thought Olga would be good audience 
for Fritz’s views on philosophy and sociology,” said her father, 
with a smile. “ But I suppose an author loves to talk of his 
work to any one who will listen.” 

Mr. Kettering was considerably reassured by this statement, 
which accounted for much that was unusual in Fritz’s behavior of 
late. And then he proposed to his wife to invite Lady Lambton 
to a little quiet dinner, and to get Fritz to come too. “ And I 
think, Gertrude,” he added, as though it had been an afterthought, 
“ that you might as well ask Mrs. Armour at the same time. 
That will make four ladies — for you will be here still, Sally ? In 
fact, you must stay. I make a point of it. The girls can dine 
early, and join us afterwards. And we’ll get Mullet and some 
other man to make up eight at table, and manage a rubber for 
the general afterwards. It will be just a cosy little friendly 
affair.” 

“ Quite a happy family,” remarked Miss Stringer. “ Three of 
Chris Dalton’s relations feeding together — and not on each other!” 

It was quite evident to Mrs. Kettering’s wifely observation that 
her husband had not improvised these arrangements ; but that he 
had considered them and made up his mind about them before- 
hand. But she told Miss Stringer that she thought it a very good 
idea to bring Fritz and Lady Lambton together. It was a long- 
time since they had seen anything of Lady Lambton, and if Fritz 
would but make up to her again, there would be something to 
relieve Augusta’s mind. 

So the party was arranged, although not exactly as Mr. Ketter- 
ing had projected. General Mullet, on whom he had counted, 
was unable to come, having engaged himself to dine early at his 
club with an old comrade about to return to India, and it was 
found impossible to replace him at a short notice. Perikles Rho- 
donides was secured. And Olga was included in the dinner-party 
in order to make up the eighth. To Fritz was assigned the honor 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


249 


of taking Mrs. Armour out to dinner; the host, of course, es- 
corted Lady Lambton ; Rhodonides gave bis arm to tbe hostess ; 
and Olga and Sally Stringer had to bring up the rear together. 
It was a very informal arrangement, but the best that could be 
made under the circumstances. And, as Mr. Kettering said, it 
only gave the party still more markedly the character of a cosy, 
familiar, unpretending little gathering, which was what he desired. 

Mrs. Armour was in a state of suppressed excitement. She 
desired, of course, to make a charming figure in Mr. Kettering’s 
eyes, and in the eyes of every male creature present. But she 
also desired to fascinate the ladies of Mr. Kettering’s family ; and 
Juliet Armour was one of those women to whom these two de- 
sires appear to be, in the nature of things, conflicting. 

She had taken great pains with her toilet ; and when she left 
the boarding-house, where she had dressed, she was very well sat- 
isfied with her own appearance. Her light hair was roughened, 
and frizzed high on her head; her gown was of the palest blue; 
her complexion, naturally colorless, reduced to a dead white by 
the plentiful application of toilet-powder. Miss Jenks had pro- 
nounced her to look “ like a fairy ” (and not in hypocritical adu- 
lation. Miss Jenks’s ideal of a fairy had been formed, in early 
youth, at a Christmas pantomime in the Theatre Royal, North- 
ampton, and Miss Jenks’s impressions were lasting.) But when 
she saw Lady Lambton, who was in high spirits, and looking 
extremely handsome, Juliet felt a bitter pang of envious revolt 
against her poverty. If she could be so dressed and cared for — 
if she could have arrived in a snug brougham, instead of a 
draughty street-cab, she would not have feared to match herself 
against the younger woman. But who could fight against money ? 

She put a strong constraint on her discontented temper, in 
order to be gracious and agreeable to Fritz Hofmann when he 
was presented to her in the drawing-room before dinner. She 
had heard his cousins speak of Fritz, in Vevey, and knew him 
to be worth conciliating. She had to watch the others, too ; 
and to do her best to shape her behavior, as her observation of 
them prompted ; and she was at the disadvantage of being the 
only stranger in the circle. 

In spite of Mr. Kettering’s urbanity, and Mrs. Kettering’s hos- 
pitable amiability, and the excellence of all the material part of 


250 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


the repast, the dinner was not so successful as such entertainments 
usually were in that house. In the first place, Lady Lambton, 
who had been put to sit near Fritz at the round table, perversely 
bestowed all her smiles, and sparkling glances, and lively conver- 
sation on Mr. Rhodonides, seated opposite to her. While Fritz, 
taking only so much notice of Mrs. Armour as the barest courtesy 
demanded, engrossed his cousin Olga’s attention, instead of leav- 
ing her free to talk to Rhodonides, who was placed on the other 
side of her. 

Mr. and Mrs. Kettering exchanged glances of annoyance. Peri- 
kles Rhodonides had been a great deal at their house last year, 
and had singled out Olga for a great deal of attention. Her father 
and mother had said to each other that Olga was very young, and 
that they would not dream of forcing the thing; but that, really, 
it might do very well — for the young man was good-tempered, 
good-looking, well-mannered, and the heir to great wealth ; and 
here was Fritz spoiling sport in the stupidest and most tactless 
way ! 

His Aunt Gertrude privately attributed it all to Mrs. Armour, 
who was not attractive enough to make Fritz talk to her; while 
his Uncle Philip supposed Fritz was jealous and out of temper at 
not being able to engross Lady Lambton. 

When the ladies retired to the drawing-room, things were not 
much better. Lady Lambton was unusually effusive and affec- 
tionate to the Ketterings; but was seized by short attacks of un- 
consciousness, or absence of mind, whenever Mrs. Armour volun- 
teered a remark. And even when she did speak to that lady, 
Amy’s manner, if it had a fault, might have been taxed with 
excess of condescension. 

Mrs. Kettering soon told Olga to go to the piano and play some- 
thing softly ; and this request was enthusiastically supported by 
Lady Lambton, who declared that nothing was so deliciously 
soothing and so conducive to confidential conversation as soft 
music. 

It was conducive also — at all events in Mrs. Kettering’s case — 
to a gentle nap. The hostess leaned back in her chair and closed 
her eyes. Miss Stringer, with a kind of rigid politeness, drew 
nearer to the two guests by way of offering herself to be talked 
to, should they be disposed to talk, but she did not initiate any 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


251 


subject of conversation. Ida took up an illustrated book, and 
Olga softly played the “Blue Danube” waltz — for which, it 
seemed, she had a special fondness — over and over again, like a 
strain of music heard in a dream. 

Mrs. Armour, who had been specially watchful, amid all her 
other watchings, of Lady Lambton, now decided that the present 
moment was a favorable one for unsheathing her claws a little. 
She had kept them hitherto in a velvet case — to the intensifica- 
tion of her silent resentment. But now, with a feline sudden- 
ness that suggested a noiseless spring, she began to speak of her 
beloved uncle in America, and said point-blank to Lady Lambton, 

“ My sister and I, as his nearest and dearest relatives, have 
been absolutely shocked to see the greedy rush made at the poor 
dear old man by needy outsiders, who belong to the veriest fringe 
and tags on the hem of his family.” Then, with a pounce and 
a flash of blue fire from the hard, watchful eyes, “But I really 
beg your pardon. I forgot that you have written to him, Lady 
Lambton.” 

What answer Amy would have made to this unexpected attack, 
or whether she would have made any, must remain unrecorded ; 
for at this moment the door was opened, and the gentlemen en- 
tered in a little knot together. 

“ Oh !” murmured Mrs. Kettering, opening her eyes, “ you 
are early, Philip. Ida, ring for coffee.” 

“ My dear,” said Mr. Kettering, speaking more quickly than 
usual ; “ here is General Mullett.” 

The general advanced with an air of solemn importance, his 
face looking very red above his white cravat. 

“ I must apologize, Mrs. Kettering,” he said, “ but the fact is, I 
have seen a piece of information which may not yet have reached 
you ; and in which I know that you and Miss Stringer” (with a 
bow in her direction), “ and Lady Lambton” (another bow), “ and 
— and, in short, various persons whom I have the pleasure of 
knowing, are interested. I drove Jack Bingham down to the 
Victoria Station — lie’s off by the Indian mail train to Brindisi — 
and there I bought an evening paper, and the first thing I see 
is — Here it is, among the deaths: ‘On the 15th ult., at Gal- 
lup, New Mexico, U. S. A., suddenly, Christopher Dalton, Esq., 
formerly of Cannes, France.’ ” 


252 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Of all those present, the person on whom the announcement 
of Mr. Dalton’s death made incomparably the strongest impres- 
sion was Mrs. Armour. She gasped for breath, and clutched at 
the arm of her chair, as though she were about to faint. But 
in another moment she rose to her feet, and unceremoniously 
snatched the paper from General Mullett’s hand. She was rough 
in her movements, and sharp and short of speech. For once in 
her life she was too thoroughly and intensely in earnest to care 
a straw for effect. 

“ Do you take this to be accurate ? I suppose they wouldn’t 
insert an announcement of this kind if it were not true?” she 
said, abruptly turning on General Mullett. To which he an- 
swered, nervously, that he was afraid it must be true, although 
he really could not vouch for it ; but he was very sorry to have 
been the bearer of ill-tidings, and to have told this sad news, in 
ignorance (in pure ignorance, he begged her to believe !), with- 
out any preparation, to a lady who might — who was — who, in 
short, appeared to have a special interest in Mr. Christopher 
Dalton. 

“ I’m his niece,” said Mrs. Armour, shortly, and then turned 
her back on him to look again at the newspaper. 

Lady Laiubton, to whom the matter w r as of less vital impor- 
tance, had some thought to spare for appearances, and displayed 
a very interesting and becoming degree of agitation. General 
Mullett was much struck by the different demeanor of the two 
ladies under these circumstances, and whispered admiringly to 
Miss Stringer that Lady Lambton was so essentially womanly ! 

“ Ah !” said Sally, after a steady observation of young Rho- 
donides, who was hovering near her ladyship with his mouth 
ajar, and a general expression of rather imbecile sympathy, “ I 
dare say. And I think Mr. Rhodonides is so peculiarly manly ! 
Don’t you ?” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


253 


Ida had pressed forward, close to her father, in order to hear 
all that was going on ; and Fritz, standing in the background be- 
side the piano, where Olga still sat with her fingers on the silent 
keys, observed the others without joining in the general buzz of 
excitement. 

Mrs. Armour, rolling the newspaper up small in her hand, and 
not relinquishing her tight hold of it for an instant, begged Mrs. 
Kettering to have a cab sent for immediately, and went down- 
stairs at once to put her cloak on, attended by her host, who — 
divided between his inclination to express congratulatory hopes and 
his sense of propriety, which demanded something like a condo- 
lence — could only repeat, with Grandisonian courtesy, the recom- 
mendation not to excite herself unduly under the strain of this 
shock ; and to remember that, if he could render her any assist- 
ance, he should be proud of the privilege of doing so. 

Juliet was able by this time to command herself enough to thank 
him, and to look up languishingly into his face, and to murmur 
plaintively that he was very good to a poor little woman, left to 
buffet her way through the world alone, and that she knew no 
human being on whose ripe judgment she would so implicitly rely 
as his. For the stakes were not won, and the hazards of the die 
were many. But as the cab jolted away with her towards lied 
Lion Square, her heart swelled with the hope that that might be 
the last time she need submit to Mr. Kettering’s patronizing be- 
nevolence, and with exultant anticipations of cutting out those 
fools of Kettering women with her splendor, and trampling Lady 
Lambton under foot ! 

That charming woman was a little annoyed at Mrs. Armour’s 
precipitate retreat, because she feared she w’as bound in decency 
to follow her example (especially after all she had said of her 
mother’s tenderly, sisterly affection for Chris Dalton), and she 
would have preferred to remain and spend the evening, and get 
hints as to what line of conduct it would now behoove her to pur- 
sue. There was the excuse for remaining that her brougham was 
not ordered for an hour yet. But General Mullett, in his gallantry, 
placed his carriage, which was waiting, at her disposition, and she 
could not refuse to avail herself of it. 

“ Good-night, dearest Mrs. Kettering,” she said, bending down 
to kiss that lady’s plump, peach-like check — an unwonted caress, 


254 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


but attributable to unwonted agitation. General Mullett gave her 
bis arm down-stairs, but Rliodonides hovered near her in the hall, 
and Ida, who ran after her ladyship with a fan she had dropped, 
overheard her say to that mercantile Adonis that she hoped he 
would be able to come to her house to-morrow about five, as she 
had a great many questions to ask, and wanted his business opin- 
ion and advice particularly. 

The Kettering family — including Fritz — was soon left alone, 
for General Mullett and Rliodonides went away together. And 
then Mr. Kettering, standing with his back to the fire, with an 
aristocratic air of repose on him, and speaking in his softest and 
most polished tones, said: “Perhaps, my dear Sally, you will 
come in for a slice of this big cake. I hear on all hands that the 
cake is very big.” 

Although it was out of the question that he should ever turn 
the cold shoulder on Sally, even though she were to become pen- 
niless, and although he would certainly, in that case, give her a 
home in his house, and treat her with undiminished regard, yet, 
in some indefinable way, it was undoubtedly equable to him per- 
sonally, and quite apart from his good-will towards Sally, to con- 
template the possibility of her inheriting several thousands of 
pounds. He was also very complacent about Mrs. Armour’s 
prospects, and said, with dignified enjoyment, that there could 
be no reasonable doubt of her coming in for a very large sum, 
since Dalton’s wealth was immense, and she was his nearest sur- 
viving relation. 

“ There’s her sister,” put in Miss Stringer, with great distinct- 
ness of articulation. 

“ Oh, her sister ? Of course, there is her sister. Who has an 
equal claim. Naturally — only — ” 

“ Quite so !” returned Sally, nodding affirmatively, as if he had 
completed his sentence. “ The sister has grizzled hair, and wears 
a hideous black gown, and, judging by appearances, does not pos- 
sess such a thing as a powder-puff. One can’t think of her as an 
interesting heiress.” 

Mr. Kettering’s withers being un wrung, he merely laughed with 
good-humored toleration, and retorted that women who wilfully 
wore hideous gowns could not expect to be interesting. And he 
then withdrew to his study to smoke. Fritz declined his uncle’s 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


255 


invitation to join him there, and even resisted the temptation of 
some special and wonderful cigars newly arrived. 

“ No, thank you, Uncle Philip,” he said. “"As our evening has 
been broken up, I will go home and read metaphysics for an hour 
or two.” 

But, in spite of that resolution, Fritz still lingered after Mr. 
Kettering had left the room. He had seated himself near the 
piano, where Olga still kept her place, and was touching the keys 
with delicately poised fingers, that woke only the most subdued 
sounds, while Mrs. Kettering, Sally, and Ida eagerly discussed 
Christopher Dalton’s death, and the possible bearings of that 
event on the fortunes of many people whom they knew. 

Occasionally Miss Stringer’s sharp ears caught something of 
the dialogue going on at the piano ; and all that she heard con- 
firmed her persuasion that Fritz Hofmann was a great deal too 
much occupied with his own hobbies to have much attention to 
spare for Miss Copley or Miss Anybody Else ! 

“ I believe you would thoroughly understand all that I have 
written so far,” Fritz was saying to his cousin. “You know Ger- 
man as well as I do.” 

“ German ? Oh yes ; it isn’t the language, but the ideas, that 
would floor me. I have always considered myself an awful little 
duffer about anything intellectual.” 

“ You are not in the least a duffer, as you call it ! I have never 
met with any one clearer-headed. And it would be a useful test 
for me if you wouldn’t mind reading a few chapters. My aim has 
been to write as plainly as possible, and to avoid philosophic tech- 
nicalities.” 

“ Ah ! The philosophers have a slang of their own, then ?” 

“ Precisely. And if you found anything unintelligible in the 
introductory chapters, I should know it was my fault, and would 
rewrite the passage.” 

But, by degrees, their voices dropped into a still lower key ; 
and the waltz melody flowed on above their words, like a trick- 
ling brook over grass and pebbles. And Fritz said, 

“ That is the ‘ Blue Danube ’ that you are playing, isn’t it, Olga? 
I haven’t a good ear, but I always recognize that.” 

Then, after a pause, partly filled by the soft music, he went on : 

“Do you know what I always think of now — and always shall, 


256 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


I believe — when I hear that waltz? I think of the evening when 
we danced here together, all by ourselves, and of that cold day 
when we were walking in the Regent’s Park, and you spoke so 
nobly. Somehow it all seems mingled w'ith the music in my 
mind. Do you feel that, Olga?” 

Olga bent her head down very low over the keys, and whispered : 

“ Yes, Fritz.” 

Miss Stringer broke up the conference over the fire by rising 
from her chair, looking at her watch, and observing that it was 
time for Ida to be in bed ; Ida being still under Dr. Slocombe’s 
orders, who enjoined early hours. And then Olga, when Fritz 
moved away from the piano, rose too, and said she would go to 
bed also. As she came forward into the light, she shielded her 
eyes with her hand, complaining of the glare after the shaded 
corner where the piano stood. 

“ Aunt Gertrude,” said Fritz, rather anxiously, “ I think you 
ought to get Slocombe, or some one, to look at Olga’s eyes.” 

“ At Olga’s eyes !” and, “ Goodness, Fritz, what nonsense !” ex- 
claimed the mother and daughter respectively. 

“ I mean what I say. I’m afraid there must be some weakness. 
Don’t you remember that cold day in the Regent’s Park, Olga, 
when you felt the sting of the frosty air so severely ? And now 
the light affects you.” 

Olga’s face flushed crimson, and she stamped her foot impa- 
tiently. 

“ Fritz !” she exclaimed, in a trembling voice, “ if you talk such 
bosh, I’ll never speak to you again !” and with a hasty general 
“Good-night,” she ran out of the room, followed, more deliber- 
ately, by Ida. 

Fritz was beginning to assure his aunt that Olga’s eyes ought 
not to be neglected for any caprice of her own against seeing Dr. 
Slocombe, when Mrs. Kettering stopped him. 

“Oh, you don’t understand girls, Fritz. Olga has been put 
out, I’m afraid. Look here ! I want to say a word to you about 
Olga. Sally knows all about it. Just sit down a minute.” 

Fritz drew a chair near the hearth for Miss Stringer, but she 
preferred to remain as she was, standing with one foot on the 
fender, and shading her face from the fire with a little hand-screen. 
Then Fritz sat down opposite to her and near his aunt. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


257 


“ Now, of course, you noticed,” began Mrs. Kettering, “ that 
Lady Lambton did her best to engross Perikles Rhodonides’s at- 
tention at dinner.” 

“ Did she, Aunt Gertrude ?” 

“ Oh, that wasn’t your fault, of course. But if you had not 
kept Olga chattering to you all the time, Rhodonides might have 
had a few words with her in spite of Lady Lambton. But you 
didn’t give him a chance, Fritzchen.” 

“ A — chance !” 

“Of course, I don’t know that Olga wished to talk with him. 
Very likely not. And she certainly did not wish it enough to 
make opportunities for him. Although she talks slang for fun, 
Olga is not that sort of girl. She has plenty of dignity. At the 
same time, you were rather blundering, my dear Fritz. Brothers 
never think of their sisters in that way. And as you are just like 
a son of the house, I give you this hint for another time.” 

All this Mrs. Kettering said in her usual placid manner, and 
with her usual slow, lazy accents. Fritz’s face — keenly watched 
by the pair of steel-gray eyes behind the hand-screen — showed at 
first mere bewilderment; and then, with the growing comprehen- 
sion of Mrs. Kettering’s meaning, it clouded over until it became 
quite stormy. 

“ Good heavens, Aunt Gertrude !” he exclaimed, when she had 
finished ; “ you don’t mean to say that Rhodonides is thinking of 
making up to Olga? Why, the fellow’s an ass !” 

“ Civil to Olga !” observed Miss Stringer, sotto voce. 

Fritz went on too impetuously to heed Sally’s interruption. 

“The idea of his aspiring to Olga is preposterous! Olga is a 
girl of a very fine nature, and a very original mind, too. It is not 
every one who can appreciate Olga.” 

“ One can hardly expect people’s fathers and mothers to appre- 
ciate them,” put in Sally, in the same tone as before. 

“ Rhodonides! It’s preposterous !” said Fritz again, and began 
to walk impatiently up and down the room. 

“My goodness, Fritz!” exclaimed Mrs. Kettering, with her 
handsome blue eyes very wide open, “ what is there prepos- 
terous in it? Philip does not think it at all preposterous. Rho- 
donides is a very nice young fellow, and he will be immensely 
rich.” 


17 


258 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Fritz stopped short in his walk, and turned round. “Does 
Olga know anything of this?” he asked. 

“ Anything of what ? She must know that Rhodonides paid 
her a great deal of attention last season. A girl can’t help know- 
ing that. But she is not likely to make any sign. Of course, 
she would have to be courted and sought for. I can’t say that 
Rhodonides would succeed, if he did court her. Perhaps not. 
At any rate, Olga will be left free to decide for herself. Her 
father and I would not breathe a word to persuade her against 
her will. Only the young man ought to have his fair chance, 
that’s all. And I don’t understand what you can have against 
him, Fritz.” 

“ Nothing, Aunt Gertrude — except that he is an ass.” 

Mrs. Kettering pondered for a minute or so, while Fritz re- 
sumed his pacing up and down, muttering to himself all the while 
in German. Then she said, with the air of a person illuminated 
by a new idea: “If you are vexed with him about Lady Lamb- 
ton, I can tell you she wouldn’t have taken so much notice of 
him if you had been as attentive to her as you used to be. There 
is such a thing as pique, Fritz.” 

Fritz came and stood close in front of his aunt’s chair; and, as 
she looked up at him, she thought what a well-built, manly fel- 
low he was, and what fire and vigor there were in his face and 
attitude. “ Aunt Gertrude,” said he, “ and Miss Stringer, too, 
for I want Miss Stringer to be kind enough to hear me.” (Sally 
nodded, to imply that she heard, and kept the steel-gray eyes un- 
winkingly fixed on him.) “ If you are not joking about Lady 
Lambton — very good ! I see you are not. Then I must take 
leave most earnestly to assure you that, whether Lady Lambton 
chooses to flirt with Rhodonides or any one else, I care no more 
than the man in the moon — or than she cares for me ! I can’t 
put it more strongly than that. She and I have been very good 
friends, and I hope we always shall be. But the idea of compar- 
ing my interest in Olga — or, indeed, of putting Olga into the same 
category with Lady Lambton at all — is wildly absurd !” 

“ Well, don’t get so excited about it, Fritzchen,” rejoined his 
aunt. Then she added, with provoking phlegm and persistency, 
“ And I do believe — of course, I have no authority for giving you 
any encouragement, but I cannot help believing — that if you 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


259 


would get over your pet, and come round a little, Lady Lambton 
would meet you more than half-way.” 

“ Good-night, Aunt Gertrude,” said Fritz, with a despairing 
shrug. 

“ Good-night, lieber Fritz. Have you a warm overcoat ? I 
think it must be freezing outside.” 

“ Mr. Hofmann will thaw it,” said Sally, giving him her hand, 
with an odd little smile that seemed to be rather in the eye than 
on the lips. 

She was very silent after lie had gone, and listened — or seemed 
to listen — to Mrs. Kettering’s placid reiteration of her views as to 
the state of affairs, without one word of criticism. Indeed, so 
subdued was she that Gertrude once or twice waited, from sheer 
force of habit, to be contradicted, and waited in vain ! 

“ Well,” said Miss Stringer, as she took up her candle to go to 
her room, “ I am truly thankful that I never married and had boys 
and girls of my own. With my temperament, I should have wor- 
ried myself to death — and them, too. Whereas now I can dis- 
miss love-making, and all such irritating nonsense, from my mind, 
and think of the deceased Mr. Dalton and his dollars, which will 
be extremely soothing.” 

Nevertheless, it may be safely asserted that of all the apparent, 
presumptive, and possible heirs to Chris Dalton’s money, not one 
thought so little about it as Sally Stringer. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

The announcement of Christopher Dalton’s death had been 
telegraphed from New York; but so slow had been the transmis- 
sion of the news to that city from the place where he died that 
he had been in his grave three weeks before the statement ap- 
peared in any English print. 

Mr. Coney became a personage of great importance to all the 
Dalton connection in those days, and was applied to on all hands 
for the address of the deceased man’s London lawyers. But he 
did not even know their names, and could only refer inquirers to 


260 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Mr. Reuben Wilford, Dalton’s agent and man of business in New 
York. 

Several letters were despatched to that person by post; but 
before the steamship that carried them was half-way on her voy- 
age across the Atlantic, an advertisement appeared in the Times 
and other newspapers, setting forth that all persons having claims 
on the estate of the late Christopher Dalton, Esquire, etc., etc., 
were to apply to Messrs. Rivett and Plumb, solicitors, Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields. 

Within an hour of seeing that advertisement, Juliet Armour 
presented herself at the office of Messrs. Rivett and Plumb, and, 
sending in her card (on which she had pencilled the words “Niece 
of Mr. Christopher Dalton ”), desired to speak with one of the 
principals. 

She was so early that neither of the principals had arrived yet. 
Mr. Rivett, she was told, was, in fact, out of town on business ; 
but Mr. Plumb was expected shortly. Declining to leave any 
message or to call again, Mrs. Armour resolutely sat herself down 
to await Mr. Plumb’s arrival in a queer, many-angled little closet 
of a room, lighted — if the word may be applied to the admission 
of so murky an atmosphere through so dirty a medium — by a 
skylight, and containing nothing comfortable to the human mind 
or body except a good fire. One of the clerks civilly endeavored 
to provide some amusement for her in the shape of yesterday’s 
newspaper, and then withdrew to his desk. 

There she sat alone, holding the paper in her hand, but with 
her eyes fixed on the fire, where she saw who shall say how many 
shifting pictures in the red coals — pictures of her own wealth and 
pride and predominance ; pictures of returning to old haunts, 
where she had once been poor, and planting her new riches ; pict- 
ures of paying off old grudges, and revenging old slights with in- 
terest heaped up and running over; but never a picture of pov- 
erty relieved, gallant struggles assisted, bygone kindness repaid, 
humble friends remembered! As for Juliet Armour, no; not 
one ! 

At last Mr. Plumb appeared — a tall, silent, sandy-haired gen- 
tleman, with a large beard, who did not seem at all surprised by 
her visit, and who was perfectly acquainted with her name and 
her relationship to his deceased client. After a brief greeting be- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


261 


tween them — its brevity being haughty on her side and merely 
business-like on his — the lady said, 

“ I suppose you were in communication with my uncle recently, 
Mr. Plumb?” 

“ Up to within a week of his death, madam.” 

Mrs. Armour bit her lip. It was extremely disagreeable to her 
to acknowledge to a stranger her uncle’s total silence towards his 
family and total neglect of herself. But it was clearly quite vain 
to hope to deceive Mr. Plumb on the subject. 

After a short pause she said, in as steady a voice as she could 
command, and with a hard stare that was perfectly steady, 

“ You are aware that I am — that my sister and I are Mr. Dal- 
ton’s nearest of kin surviving, and are consequently heirs-at- 
law.” 

“ In the event of there being no will, madam, you mean.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Quite so. But there is a will.” 

Juliet started up from her chair. A dull red color flushed into 
her face, and then faded, leaving some feverish streaks and spots 
upon its pallor, like an angry sunset on a cloudy sky. 

“ There is a will !” she exclaimed. “ How do you know 
that?” 

“ The document is in our possession,” answered Mr. Plumb, 
quite unmoved. 

“ In your possession ! How ? When was it sent to you?” 

“ It has never been out of our hands. Mr. Rivett drew it, un- 
der our client’s direction ; and it was at once deposited with his 
other papers in our strong-box.” 

Mrs. Armour stared at him with her fierce, pale-blue eyes, as 
though some enchantment compelled her to stare. “But then 
this will must be at least six-and-twenty years old !” she said. 
“ He may have made a dozen since.” 

“ This will was made on the 3d of October last, and witnessed 
the same day, on the occasion of Mr. Christopher Dalton’s last 
visit to England,” said Mr. Plumb, very deliberately. It was im- 
possible to discover any emotion in bis dry, indifferent voice ; but 
Juliet fancied she detected in his countenance a gleam of cool 
satisfaction, as if he were conscious of having astonished her and 
made a point. 


262 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ My uncle has — revisited Europe !” she said, speaking rather 
breathlessly. 

“ Several times.” 

“Unknown to all his family?” 

“Unknown to every one except ourselves; by his own express 
desire.” 

Juliet put her hand up to her head. She felt confused and 
dizzy. 

“ I have despatched a communication to you,” continued Mr. 
Plumb. 

“To me?” 

“ To you, and to your sister, Miss Kirby, and to all the parties 
interested ; inviting your presence at the reading of the will here 
in our office on Monday next.” 

“ I am interested in the will, then ?” said Juliet, quickly. 

Mr. Plumb bowed. 

“ And you — you knew my address ?” 

“ We knew where to find Miss Kirby, who has inhabited the 
same house for many years. And your letter was addressed under 
cover to her.” 

Mr. Plumb had risen from his chair when Mrs. Armour rose 
from hers, and he remained standing without inviting her to re- 
sume her seat — a sufficient hint that he considered the interview 
at an end. But Mrs. Armour still lingered. At length she said, 
abruptly, “ What are the contents of the will ?” 

“ Mr. Rivett drew it, madam.” 

She suppressed a quick frown that lowered on her forehead, 
and said, with a forced and ghastly effort to smile archly, “ But 
I have no doubt you could make a shrewd guess at its general 
tenor if you chose !” 

“I should not — excuse me! — consider that to be any part of 
my duty.” 

“ I am sure you know more than you choose to say !” she ex- 
claimed, suddenly losing her temper. 

“ Most persons do, madam,” answered Mr. Plumb, keeping 
his. 

And then Mrs. Armour, with a curt, and almost savage, gesture 
of the head, which it would have required extraordinary leniency 
of construction to interpret as a bow, flounced out of the room. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


263 


The letters of invitation to hear Mr. Dalton’s will read created 
a greater stir and excitement among the recipients of them than 
even the tidings of his death ; for that he must die some day was 
certain ; but it was very uncertain, indeed, and had been the sub- 
ject of numberless hopes and fears, whether he would make a will, 
or leave his vast property to be divided among his surviving rela- 
tions without troubling himself to apportion the shares. 

The news was rapidly transmitted from one to another that the 
lawyers were to read the will at noon on Monday, December 
17th; and even those members of the family who had received 
no invitation resolved to be present. An oversight was so pos- 
sible — nay, so probable ! And how could Messrs. Iiivett and 
Plumb be sure of every one’s address ? 

By a quarter before noon on December 17th, the Hopkinses, 
father and son, had already arrived at the lawyer’s office. They 
were shown into a room considerably larger than that in which 
Juliet Armour had waited for Mr. Plumb; but equally gloomy 
and equally barren of anything pleasant, save a good fire ; and 
even that, although it diffused heat, did not break the general 
dull monotony by any flame or sparkle. 

Mortimer was dressed in mourning. He had his hair tightly 
curled, and wore a huge imitation pearl in his black cravat. He 
was pale and nervous ; disconcerted, moreover, by the absence of 
a looking-glass, and furtively endeavoring to see himself in the 
lower panes of a glazed book-case. Mr. John Hopkins — perhaps 
by way of emphasizing his son’s gentility, and separating his own 
inferior position from that of Mortimer’s family connections by 
the mother’s side — was dressed in his ordinary clothes, and 
seemed to have selected a peculiarly shabby suit. The father and 
son sat alone in the room for several minutes, almost in silence ; 
and the few words they did say were said in whispers. 

The next arrivals were Lady Lambton and her mother. Her 
ladyship saluted the Hopkinses very graciously ; and looked very 
well in her rustling black-silk gown and lavender bonnet. Mrs. 
Shortway was evidently ill at ease, and sat behind her daughter in 
the most obscure corner she could find. 

Then came, almost simultaneously, Miss Stringer, Mrs. Armour, 
with her sister Miss Kirby, and Mr. Coney. The entrance of the 
latter caused some surprise among the members of the family. 


264 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


But he took his place with a face of solemn and stolid impor- 
tance, which, if not Shakespearian in one sense, was eminently so 
in another, for it suggested the official manner of Dogberry. Mr. 
Rivett and Mr. Plumb had entered the room together just be- 
fore Mrs. Armour and her sister. Mr. Rivett was a spare, bald, 
wizened man, between sixty and seventy, with very harsh and 
powerful voice, which, however, he kept in so subdued a key that 
it sometimes sounded like the stealthy grating of a saw ; but with 
nothing in his appearance or manner to distinguish him from 
hundreds of his compeers. 

“ I presume, sir, we are all now assembled ?” said Mrs. Armour, 
in a rather arrogant tone. 

She had taken upon herself the air of the principal personage 
concerned ; but her sister sat very quiet, and looked at every one 
in turn with the kind of disinterested curiosity of a person who 
has lived so much apart from the world that he has come to re- 
gard his fellow-creatures in general as a spectator in the theatre 
regards the players on the stage. 

“Not yet, madam,” said Mr. Rivett, in reply to Mrs. Armour. 
“ We are expecting another person, and ” — looking at his watch — 
“ it is barely seven minutes past twelve. We must allow a little 
grace.” 

“I cannot conceive that there is any important member of 
the family absent from this assembly,” returned Mrs. Armour, 
haughtily. 

Before any reply could be made the door was opened, and a 
clerk ushered in a young man, in whom Juliet was astonished and 
startled to recognize Claude Copley. 

The sight of him caused a shock of uneasy surprise to most of 
those present, and the glances directed towards him varied in in- 
tensity from grudging mistrust to open dislike and resentment. 
Whispers went about from one to another that, no doubt, these 
people had been importuning Mr. Dalton for money in an under- 
hand fashion, and had probabty succeeded in securing a legacy ; 
and that they (the whisperers) didn’t so much object to that, as to 
the sneaking, surreptitious way in which it had been accomplished 
— secrecy, greed, and meanness being so truly repulsive ! 

And yet Claude’s appearance might have excited pity in the 
breast of even a rival legatee. He was more emaciated than 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


265 


ever; his cheeks were sunken, his deep-set eyes shone feverishly. 
There hung about him an indefinable air of vulgar dissipation ; 
and a peevish frown, expressive of mingled suffering and ill- 
humor, constantly contracted his dark brows. 

The lawyers motioned him to a chair, and he seated himself 
with a little bow, half sullen, half haughty — a salutation which 
Mrs. Armour, to whom it was chiefly directed, openly refused to 
return. 

There ensued a dead silence while Mr. Rivett unlocked a tin 
box that had been placed on the table before him, took from it a 
voluminous document, unfolded it, and began in his rasping 
monotone to read it aloud. 

After the formal preamble, which was set forth with all pos- 
sible legal verbosity, and wherein Reuben Wilford, of New York, 
and Nathaniel Coney, of London, were appointed executors, came 
the following bequests : 

“ To the executors aforesaid, one hundred pounds each ; to Sarah 
Stringer, spinster, daughter of a first-cousin of the deceased, one 
thousand pounds in English government consols, as a recognition 
of her never having importuned him with professions of regard 
for himself, which it was impossible she should feel ; his house 
and land in Essex, in trust to be sold, and the proceeds to be in- 
vested for the benefit of Helen, wife of Maurice Shortway, the 
income to be hers absolutely during her life, and after her death 
the capital to be divided equally among her four younger daugh- 
ters, the eldest being already sufficiently provided for; to Dora 
Kirby and Juliet Armour, his nieces, five hundred pounds each; 
to Mortimer Hopkins, grandson of his beloved sister Isabella, also 
five hundred pounds, to furnish him with pocket-money; the tes- 
tator desiring to leave it on record that he made only this limited 
bequest, well knowing that his grandnephew would eventually 
possess ample means for one in his station of life.” 

Mr. Rivett here paused, and blew his nose resoundingly. A 
curious thrill seemed to run through the company. Amazement 
was on every face — on many, consternation ; on some, fierce, pale 
anger. 

“But what — what,” began the elder Hopkins, starting up and 
stammering with rage, “ Where is the bulk of the fortune ? Here 
are only a few paltry thousands accounted for, and — ” 


266 


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“I have not finished, sir,” said Mr. Rivett, severely. And 
Mortimer, with a white, scared face, plucked at his father’s coat, 
to make him sit down again. 

Mr. Rivett gave a rapid glance at the countenances around him, 
and went on. 

Stripped of technical verbiage, what he read was to the effect 
that, after payment of the preceding legacies, Christopher Dalton 
bequeathed the whole of the remainder of his real and personal 
estate in trust for Claude, only son of the late James and Olivia 
Copley, and grandson of the late David Hughes, formerly of 
Marypool. The said Claude Copley to come into absolute pos- 
session of the property on his twenty-first birthday ; but in the 
event of his death before having attained that age, the property 
was to be divided among the testator’s surviving relations in the 
following proportions: Mortimer Hopkins to take a clear half; 
one quarter to go to Mrs. Shortway, with the remainder to her 
younger daughters, as before ; one eighth to Miss Stringer ; and 
the remaining eighth to be equally divided between Dora Kirby 
and Juliet Armour. 

Then ensued a silence, charged with passion as a thundercloud 
is charged with electricity. Mr. Rivett took off his spectacles, 
and, proceeding to refold the will, said, in a subdued but grating 
tone, “ I congratulate you, Mr. Copley.” 

As though they had waited for these words as for a signal, 
nearly all present rose to their feet simultaneously, and a noise of 
angry voices burst forth. 

“Do you mean to say that is all, sir?” shouted John Hopkins.. 
“ Is there no codicil ?” screamed Mrs. Armour. “ I never heard 
of anything so iniquitous!” said Lady Lambton, in a trembling 
voice. 

“Iniquitous, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Armour, snatching at the 
word. “ But those who have plotted and schemed for this end 
will find themselves mistaken if they imagine that Mr. Dalton’s 
rightful heirs are going to sit down and bear it quietly. I shall 
dispute the will.” 

“ May I inquire on what grounds, madam?” asked Mr. Plumb, 
eying her with irritating coolness and gravity. 

“On the ground of — of undue influence — collusion — imbecil- 
ity!” she returned, stamping her foot. “There cannot be a law 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


267 


court in England that would support such a preposterous docu- 
ment. My uncle must have been mad when he made it. And 
how that shameless, intriguing fellow can have the impudence to 
come into our midst, and brave the family — ” 

But here she was interrupted by a stir and bustle among a knot 
of persons on the other side of the room. Miss Stringer pulled 
out her vinaigrette, Mr. Rivett violently rang the bell, Mr. Plumb 
begged some one to open the door and let in more air ; for Mr. 
Claude Copley was discovered to have fainted dead away. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Claude Copley had been more or less ill for a week — ever 
since the reading of Christopher Dalton’s will. As soon as he 
had recovered out of his fainting-fit, Mr. Plumb had brought 
him home in a cab, and had then recounted to his astonished 
sister all that had passed in the office in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. 
The news was all the more astounding to Barbara, since Claude 
had kept secret the fact that he had been invited to the reading 
of the will. “Very considerately intended, no doubt,” said Mr. 
Plumb. “He did not wish to agitate his family by raising false 
hopes.” 

Barbara made no answer to this speech. Neither did Miss 
Hughes, who had hastened, trembling, out of the schoolroom on 
hearing the strange voice in the little passage, and Barbara’s ex- 
clamation, “ Oh, Claude !” But they both knew very well that 
Claude had been actuated by no such consideration as Mr. Plumb 
attributed to him, but had simply chosen to avoid the risk of a 
painful scene with his Uncle William, whose intense sensitiveness, 
on the subject of Christopher Dalton, Claude had already pro- 
nounced to be absurdly overstrained, and unworthy of a man who 
knew anything of the world. The young man had pronounced 
this opinion privately to Aunt Judith, and had persisted in it after 
she had been driven to tell him all the family story without re- 
serve or mitigation. 

The news of his having fainted startled and alarmed the two 


268 


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women at first, almost to the exclusion of the other tidings 
brought by Mr. Plumb. But Claude himself made light of it. 
He attributed it to the close, hot atmosphere of the lawyers’ 
office, and, as soon as Mr. Plumb had gone away, declaring that 
there had been coke in the beast of a fire, and that he (Claude) 
never could stand the fumes of coke ; but that he should be all 
right presently. He obstinately, and even angrily, resisted all 
persuasions and entreaties to go to bed. Why should he go to 
bed? Did they think he was dying? He didn’t want to be cod- 
dled. He would just have a snooze by the parlor fire for five 
minutes. That was all he needed. And so throughout each day 
during the ensuing week he persisted in leaving his bed after 
breakfast, and sitting in the parlor, where a makeshift couch had 
been established for him, made up of chairs and pillows. He had 
talked of going out ; but the weather, which was very cold and 
wet, furnished him with a sufficient excuse for not making the at- 
tempt to do so. 

In his uncle’s presence, however, he assumed much more the 
tone of an invalid, feeling instinctively that that character shield- 
ed him more effectually than anything else could have done from 
disagreeable discussions. 

Mr. Plumb had been astonished at the absence of all sign of 
rejoicing in Miss Hughes and Miss Copley when he told them of 
Claude’s splendid inheritance. His astonishment would have in- 
creased a hundredfold could he have seen them a little later, tear- 
fully consulting together in their poor home how to break the 
news to William, as though they had to communicate the tidings 
of some terrible disaster. Judith dreaded it most, having in her 
mind the recollection of the letter containing money that had 
come from France so many, many years ago, and the almost 
frenzied horror and indignation it had excited in her nephew. 
But the brave old woman rejected Barbara’s offer to take upon 
herself the task of speaking to Uncle William when he should 
come home. 

“No, Barbara,” she said, “William and I have lived through 
so much together. We will live through this.” 

Unspeakable would have been Mr. Plumb’s bewilderment could 
he have beheld the three sad faces round the humble breakfast- 
table next morning, or known that Barbara — whose chamber was 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


209 


underneath her uncle’s — lay awake half the night with an aching 
heart, and listened to his footfall as he paced up and down, up 
and down, wrestling with the phantoms of old sorrows, and with 
the fiery passion that was a constituent part of his nature ; turn- 
ing his thoughts from the bitter past, with a burst of compassion 
for the helpless ones to whom he was resolved to devote every 
pulse of his noble heart; sorrowing tenderly over the faults which 
were most antagonistic to his own character ; and murmuring, 
with exquisite pity : 

“ Poor dear Olive’s boy ! Poor darling Olive’s orphan boy !” 

Such a fashion of receiving the announcement of a large fort- 
une had certainly never come under Mr. Plumb’s observation. 
But, nevertheless, the truth was, that in no member of that poor 
and struggling household did it excite the least sense of gratifi- 
cation, excepting only in Claude. But Claude’s exultation was 
boundless. He contrived in some degree to suppress it in his 
uncle’s presence ; but with Aunt Judith he spoke unrestrainedly. 

“ I think Uncle William must be going out of his mind !” he 
said to her one morning, after his uncle had left the house. “ He 
seems to expect me to give up my money ! At least, I don’t see 
what other interpretation can be put on something he said just 
now. Sheer madness !” 

Aunt Judith’s forehead was wrinkled with new lines of per- 
plexity and anxiety of late ; and the wintry roses in her cheeks 
were fading sadly. She looked up now from her knitting, and 
said slowly, “ Well, child, well, don’t speak with disrespect of 
your uncle. You don’t mean it, Claude, I know ; but it hurts me 
to hear such words.” 

“ Nobody seems to consider that it may hurt me to hear such — 
such confounded nonsense.” 

“Tush, child! Don’t fret yourself about shadows. It’s of no 
use to talk now of renouncing — the money is not yours yet.” 

“Yes, it is!” cried Claude, quickly, with a blaze of temper in 
his sunken eyes. “It is mine virtually. It will be in my own 
hands almost immediately to do what I please with. My birth- 
day is on the 30th of March. To-day is the 29th of December. 
The time will fly fast.” 

To any one who knew Claude Copley, his ready mention of the 
date was strangely significant. Formerly he had been always uu- 


210 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


certain as to the day of the month, and often as to the day of the 
week. 

And then he began boastfully laying his plans for the future. 
He would be magnificent; and Aunt Judith should bask in the 
rays of his splendor. And Barbara also. And he would build a 
studio for his uncle — such a studio as would make the first 
painters in the land envious. And those trader fellows like 
Hopkins would be on their knees to get Mr. William Hughes's 
pictures, when he was no longer anxious to sell them. Ha, ha ! 
Claude would enjoy seeing them come palavering, and koo-tooing, 
and having their entreaties haughtily rejected ! 

At this point Barbara, unable to command herself any longer, 
started up, and said in a low, quivering voice, “ Claude, Claude, 
don’t you know that Uncle William would sooner starve than 
touch a penny of that man’s money ? And I will have no share 
in such riches; never, never !” And then she hastened out of the 
room, sobbing hysterically. 

Claude flew into a violent rage. He inveighed against Bar- 
bara’s folly and hypocrisy — yes, hypocrisy ! For if Barbara had 
been Mr. Dalton’s heiress, neither she nor Uncle William would 
have dreamed of raising such absurd and high-flown objections to 
accepting his wealth. 

In his blind, fierce temper Claude scattered wild accusations 
broadcast, as a lunatic might scatter burning coals. And finally 
he threw himself back in his chair, panting and exhausted ; and, 
closing his eyes, soon fell into a heavy sleep. And Aunt Judith 
drew down the blind, and sat and watched beside him, with her 
knitting in her hands. 

The silence was only broken by the faint click of the knitting- 
needles, and the occasional dropping of a cinder on the hearth. 
And as Judith Hughes sat there her thoughts travelled over the 
incidents of the past week. 

Fritz Hofmann had been all that was kind, considerate, and 
attentive. He had not obtruded his presence on them ; but he 
had been constant in his inquiries for Claude, and had written 
privately to Miss Flughes, begging to be allowed to offer any as- 
sistance in his power. Barbara had seen him once, and had been 
very grateful for his goodness. “ Very grateful,” said Aunt Judith 
to herself, with a brooding face, Miss Stringer had called, too, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


271 


more than once ; and on one occasion Olga Kettering had come 
with her, and had sat for some time alone with Barbara, and 
had shown herself very warm-hearted. 

These manifestations of good-will were all the more valued be- 
cause the Hugheses were aware of the burst of indignation with 
which Dalton’s will had been received by others. Little Mrs. 
Green, the flower-painter, knew a great deal of what w T as going 
on from her nephew Edward. The latter reported that the elder 
Hopkins was violently angry against Claude, and that he had 
quarrelled with his friend Coney on the subject of the will. Mrs. 
Armour, however, had been the most furious of all. She went 
about inveighing against the Hughes family as though they were 
detected criminals of the blackest guilt ; and she had haunted the 
office of Messrs. Plumb & Rivett, threatening to dispute the 
will, and using such intemperate language towards those respect- 
able solicitors personally that they at last refused to hold com- 
munication with her, except through her legal adviser. 

All this had, of course, become known as such things do be- 
come known. How much William Hughes knew Judith could 
not tell. Since the first day he had not opened his lips on the 
subject at home, and he had steadfastly declined to enter on it 
with the lawyers. 

Mr. Plumb had called a second time, and had seen Claude 
alone, and before leaving the house he had begged for an inter- 
view with Miss Hughes, and had told her that he considered it 
highly desirable for Claude to have good medical advice. 

“ You see your grandnephew daily, madam,” said Mr. Plumb ; 
“ and for that very reason a stranger’s eye is, perhaps, keener. 
Mr. Copley is evidently unwilling to see a doctor, but I think you 
must exert your authority — you or his uncle, Mr. Hughes.” 

And this, too, became known as such things are known, and the 
suggestion that Claude’s life was precarious considerably modified 
the point of view from which sundry persons regarded him. 

“ Pm told he has not a twelvemonth to live !” said Lady Lamb- 
ton to Mr. Hopkins. And Hopkins answered brutally that that 
was nine months too many. For he, too, calculated dates, and 
knew Claude’s birthday accurately by this time. 

But, nevertheless, the thought that Claude was very ill made a 
considerable impression on him. And when Mortimer somewhat 


272 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


hesitatingly hinted that he thought of calling to inquire for Cop- 
ley — “He and me got to be pretty intimate.* And I think I 
ought just to pass the compliment, governor, as one gentleman to 
another, you know,” said Mortimer — his father did not disap- 
prove the idea. The elder Hopkins had taken a legal opinion 
about the validity of Christopher Dalton’s will ; and in cool blood 
he perceived the folly of attempting to dispute it. He was not 
going, he said to himself, to be such a fool as that Mrs. Armour, 
who ran about screaming that she was cheated, and condemned to 
poverty. “There’s nothing that does a man more harm than 
making a poor mouth,” said Mr. John Hopkins. He was as 
angry as ever against the Hughes family, and as full of suspicions. 
But there could be no harm in keeping an eye on them. In fact, 
he reflected, if it were true that the young man’s health was so 
delicate, it would be necessary to keep an eye on them. Suppos- 
ing Claude were to die before he came of age, and supposing his 
family managed to falsify the date of his death 1 Even four-and- 
twenty hours might be of incalculable importance before the 30th 
of next March. 

Moved by these considerations, Mr. Hopkins reinforced his first 
cool assent to Mortimer’s proposal by adding that if he meant 
calling, he’d better look sharp about it. 

Thus unexpectedly encouraged, Mr. Mortimer suddenly resolved 
to make a clear breast of it ; and there and then confessed his 
passion for Miss Copley — descending, however, to a more prosaic 
level of language than he had used for that purpose in speaking 
to his friends Green and Toller. 

“ Wheugh !” whistled Mr. John Hopkins, raising his eyebrows, 
and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, “ That’s another 
pair o’ shoes altogether ! Gal’s a governess, ain’t she ?” 

“ So was my mother, governor, when you married her.” 

“And I was a carver and gilder just settin’ up for myself in a 
poor little bit of a place off Ended Street. I hadn’t got a father 
at my back like you have, I can tell you. Besides, your mother’s 
fam’ly was the height of gentility, Mortimer — father an army 
officer, grandfather a dean, mother a daughter of Squire Dalton, 
of Oosewell, Essex. Now this Hughes lot is all writers and 
artists, and rubbish of that sort. Nothing that can be called 
fam’ly at all !” 





THAT WILD WHEEL. 


273 


Nor was Mr. Hopkins moved by his son’s assurance that the 
Hugheses traced their descent from the most illustrious Welsh 
blood. But he seemed to attach somewhat more importance to 
Mortimer’s argument that if Claude Copley got old Dalton’s 
money, the connection would be a wealthy and desirable one ; 
while, supposing Claude should not live to enjoy it, he (Morti- 
mer) would be rich enough to please himself. Nevertheless, he 
grumbled that in that case Mortimer might look higher. “ I 
ain’t — you know I ain’t at all sure that she’ll — that she’ll have 
me, dad,” said the young man, with a sudden rush of nervous 
despondency which seemed to make his legs quake under him. 
But this Mr. Hopkins pooh-poohed altogether. Have him? 
She’d have him fast enough ! Why shouldn’t she ? “ I sha’n’t — 

I sha’n’t ask her quite just yet, you know,” said Mortimer. “ I 
don’t think it ’ud be exactly good form , you know.” 

“ Oh, as to that, you can please yourself. I ain’t in any hurry. 
Only you keep your weather eye open, and see what they’re up 
to. I don’t know about the gal, but young Copley’s as artful a 
young devil as ever stepped. And as for Mr. William Hughes, 
I believe that, for all his simple ways at a bargain, Mr. William 
Hughes is the downiest of the downy and the deepest of the 
deep.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Mrs. Hofmann had done an imprudent thing in mentioning 
Miss Copley’s name in connection with her son’s to Arthur Mad- 
dison ; and a second imprudent thing in warning Fritz that an 
alliance with the Hugheses on his part would entail his uncle’s 
lasting displeasure. But when she got her son’s letter announcing 
that the mischief was done, and that he had made an offer of 
marriage to Miss Copley, she abstained from committing a third 
imprudence. About this third epistle she held her tongue. 

She even delayed answering it — fixing in her own mind a respite 
of three days before she would write — in the faint hope that the 
matter might not be irrevocable ; and before the three days had 
expired Fritz wrote again, telling her that, although not rejected, 
18 


274 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


be had not been finally accepted ; and also, that Miss Copley par- 
ticularly desired that the affair should for the present remain a 
secret among themselves. 

“ I told her I had already written to you, Mutterchen ; but that, 
of course, she cannot object to. I don’t agree with her in think- 
ing this period of uncertainty and indecision desirable in any way. 
But I render full justice — and so, I am sure, will my true-hearted 
Mutterchen — to the delicacy and magnanimity of the feeling 
which prompts Barbara to insist on it.” 

Thus Fritz wrote ; and Mrs. Hofmann congratulated herself 
that, this time at least, she had been discreet enough to hold her 
tongue. As to Miss Copley’s not finally accepting her Fritz, 
should Fritz choose to persevere, Mrs. Hofmann had not the 
faintest belief in that! But it really did seem that the girl per- 
ceived the irregularity of the proposed match, and the injury it 
would cause to Fritz’s prospects ; and had sufficient right feeling 
to hesitate before accepting such a sacrifice. And if she hesitated 
a little too long — well, every one knew how common were slips 
between the cup and the lip. 

Fritz’s mother had an uneasy idea that she herself was in some 
degree responsible for this obstinate pursuit of Miss Copley. 
Without going so far as Miss Sally Stringer’s theory of the Irish- 
man’s pig, Augusta Hofmann admitted to herself that it was a 
very injudicious way of trying to prevent a young man of her son’s 
character from falling in love with any young lady, to warn him 
that she was precisely the last young lady he ought to fall in love 
with. 

. . “ And the worst of it is,” said Mrs. Hofmann to herself, rather 
inconsistently, “ that I don’t believe Fritz is downright, genuinely, 
over head and ears in love with her, after all ! He has just per- 
suaded himself into it because he wouldn’t truckle to Arthur for 
the sake of his money, and to prove his own theory about walk- 
ing into love with his eyes wide open ! Oh dear me, why had I 
not the wit to advise him by all means to encourage any dawning 
inclination he might feel for Miss Barbara Copley?” But she 
knew in her own heart very well that Fritz had not enough of the 
quality which Sally Stringer typified by the Irishman’s pig to 
make that at all a safe proceeding. 

Ever since the day of the reading of the will, Fritz and Barbara 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


275 


had seen but little of each other. The Hugheses’ one sitting-room 
was devoted to Claude, who, as has been said, refused to remain 
in his own chamber, and insisted on coming down -stairs, al- 
though he was unable to sit upright in his chair. For a time 
he really needed all the nursing and attention which his grand- 
aunt and sister, aided by the devoted Larcher, could spare 
from their daily work to give him. And Aunt Judith could not 
but be struck by the perfect reasonableness displayed under these 
circumstances by Mr. Fritz Hofmann. He invented no ruse 
to accomplish an interview with the object of his love; he 
never — so far as Judith could discover — hovered about the 
house in the hope of walking with Barbara when she went to 
give her lessons ; he never importuned her to steal five minutes 
from her duties in order that he might see her, speak with her, 
or press her hand. There never was any lover so perfectly rea- 
sonable ! 

Claude was now much better. He had rallied wonderfully, and 
was in high spirits. A physician had been called in (much against 
Claude’s will), and had laid down several rules — including total 
abstinence from tobacco — with which Aunt Judith knew it would 
be impossible to make Claude comply. But with one of the doc- 
tor’s prescriptions the young man did agree. This was, that he 
should, if possible, get a little change of air at once. The present 
was not the season for the country ; but even so much of a change 
as could be got by going to Hampstead, or Highgate, or Norwood, 
would be beneficial. 

Aunt Judith, when she heard this, was greatly troubled in her 
mind. A change to Hampstead, Highgate, or Norwood ? The 
doctor might as well have advised a change to the planet Jupi- 
ter, for all the power she had to effect it ! But Claude loftily 
overrode all difficulties. It would be easy enough for him to 
get the money necessary for that purpose now, he said. Why, 
no doubt Messrs. Rivett & Plumb would lend him whatever he 
wanted ! 

Miss Hughes knew how averse William would be from asking 
such a favor of the lawyers ; nor, in truth, was the idea much 
more acceptable to herself. But what could she do ? She could 
not tell Claude that he might not live to claim the fortune he so 
confidently reckoned on. She did not utter the apprehension even 


276 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


to her own mind. But it lay deep in her heart, like a dull but 
ever-present pain. 

At length, after much anxious pondering throughout a sleepless 
night, she resolved, on her own responsibility, to write and lay 
the case before Fritz Hofmann, and to ask him for a loan, which 
would enable her to take a modest suburban lodging for Claude 
for a few weeks. This plan would meet with objections from 
Barbara. She knew that very well. But she intended to say 
nothing about it to Barbara beforehand. If she incurred re- 
proaches, she would bear them. What mother would risk her 
child’s life for a scruple? And Judith’s affection for Claude was 
maternal, both in its strength and its weakness. 

Fritz’s answer, which came as quickly as a special messenger 
could bring it, was a psean of gratitude. He could never thank 
Miss Hughes enough for her confidence in him. He dared now 
to hope that she really did feel for him some of the frank affec- 
tion of a friend. He hoped that she would permit him the fur- 
ther pleasure of helping her to find suitable rooms for Claude. 
He would set about it that very day, and he subscribed himself 
her attached and grateful Fritz Hofmann. The envelope con- 
tained a little packet of bank-notes. 

“ He’s a fine fellow — a dear fellow !” exclaimed Aunt Judith, 
taking off her glasses to wipe the tears from her eyes. “ Ah, 
what a pity that — ” She mournfully shook her head as she 
folded the letter again, without articulately finishing her sentence. 

Fritz not only furnished the money and found the lodgings, but 
he persuaded Miss Hughes to join him in a little plot. He would 
offer to lend the rooms to Claude, making it appear that they had 
been previously hired by him for his own use. 

“ And, indeed,” said Fritz, “ it will really be very convenient to 
me to have piecl-a-terre when I want to be quiet and to work at 
my book. I certainly should have taken lodgings of this sort 
sooner or later. I am only anticipating the step.” 

This little fiction offered Aunt Judith a way out of several of 
her difficulties, and she could not screw her courage up high 
enough to reject it, and reveal the whole truth to the family at 
home. For herself she had courage enough — as much courage as 
ever. She would have dined on dry bread, or laid her old bones 
on a piece of sacking for a bed, without complaining. But for 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


277 


Claude ! She was not brave enough to see Claude endure any priva- 
tion that she could spare him ; and so the little plot was carried 
out. Whether William Hughes entirely believed in every detail 
of it may be doubted; and Barbara did not believe in it at all. 
But Claude accepted it without difficulty, and was even inclined 
to take literally Hofmann’s assurance that he was doing him 
(Fritz) a favor in occupying the rooms and keeping the landlady 
up to the mark. 

It was arranged — the Christmas holidays having now com- 
menced and the little day school no longer requiring attendance 
— that Aunt Judith should accompany Claude to Norwood, where 
the lodgings were, and remain with him there awhile ; and so it 
happened that Barbara was a great deal alone in those days. 

It would have been, perhaps, ungracious in her to say so, but 
Barbara felt this solitude to be most welcome. She knew 7 that 
Aunt Judith watched her keenly, and with a new sort of solici- 
tude ; and she was conscious that Aunt Judith did not accept the 
relations between her and Fritz with the same serene, undoubting 
contentment as did her Uncle William. For her own part, Bar- 
bara was entirely satisfied with that perfect reasonableness in her 
suitor which had struck Aunt Judith — by no means to her satis- 
faction. The more Fritz’s character unfolded itself before her, in 
the acts of his daily life, the deeper grew Barbara’s gratitude to 
him, the higher her esteem, the warmer her liking. But she 
never longed for his presence. On the contrary, she felt it a re- 
lief to be left alone when her day’s work was over. 

By her day’s work is only meant the routine of her outdoor 
teaching. The long evenings were, of course, not passed in idle- 
ness. But when Barbara was working with her needle, or even 
when she had the exercise-book of some pupil lying open on the 
table before her, the employment was mechanical enough to leave 
a large part of her mind free. And then, before the lamp was 
lighted, there was that precious half-hour of dusk, when she could 
sit with folded hands beside the hearth, and her thoughts might 
wander whither they listed. 

Memory flew back, faithfully persistent as the wings of a hom- 
ing dove, to Thornfield Farm, and the breezy common, and along 
the course of the brook trickling among its sedges. And Bar- 
bara would scent the sweetness of flowers in the pure air, and 


278 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


bear the slirill sweetness of the lark, and feel, diffused throughout 
every hour of the summer day, the consciousness of one presence 
that was sweeter than all the rest. 

Sometimes she would start from these reveries, and awake as a 
sleeper awakes to remembered sorrow out of a happy dream. Not 
that she admitted her present position to be sorrowful. No ; 
Barbara would have reproached herself for such a thought. It 
was not a thought, but it was a sensation as intense as that of the 
awakened dreamer. A moment’s reflection sufficed her to recall 
the various reasons she had to be more than content with the lot 
which had been offered to her. Only that was not a sensation, 
but a thought. 

Sometimes, again, she would ask herself whether she were not 
doing wrong to Fritz in letting him devote himself to one who 
could make him only so poor a return. There was many a girl — 
far superior to herself in beauty, and charms, and worldly gear — 
who would, moreover, bring to Fritz the dowry of a warm, loving 
heart. He was worthy of all love. Had he been her brother, 
had he been her friend, how she would have rejoiced to be his 
confidant, and to listen to the story of his wooing, and to take 
the girl he loved into her heart for his sake ! Then she would 
look again at his letter that lay in her desk, and her eyes would be 
dimmed with tears because of its manly generosity. And then — 
then, perhaps, some perception of that perfect reasonableness 
which fretted Aunt Judith would cross her mind, and she would 
tell herself that Mr. Hofmann, although the best and most gen- 
erous of friends, was too much of a philosopher to let Love be 
lord of all, or to suffer his life to be darkened by a cloud which 
might overshadow the whole horizon of a less wide-minded mortal. 

All these various reflections recurred to Barbara from time to 
time, as she sat solitary in the little front parlor, and they swayed 
her purpose now this way, and now that. But one point in the 
whole matter seemed to her to shine out clear and free from 
doubt — this was Uncle William’s happiness in the prospect of her 
marrying Fritz. She was convinced that her uncle had been ena- 
bled to endure the recent painful trouble about Dalton’s will with 
all the more firmness because of the thought that Barbara, at 
least, would be removed from the contamination of that man’s 
money. And then, too, in her innermost heart, and half uncon- 


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279 


sciously, Barbara held Aunt Judith’s opinion that a woman who 
does not answer “No,” practically answers “Yes.” All then de- 
pends on the earnestness and persistency of the wooer. 

One evening — the third after the departure of her brother and 
grand-aunt to Norwood — Barbara sat alone by the hearth, her 
delicate head bent down, the firelight making deep, strong shad- 
ows among the folds of her gown, and tinting with a warm rose- 
color the fair hands that lay lightly folded in her lap. She closed 
her eyes, and the winged thoughts flew far away from the dusky 
little room into the summer sunshine. It was over; it was over. 
Those days were gone, and the future lay plain before her. But 
still the winged thoughts flew far away, and hovered over Thorn- 
field. 

Presently she heard a ring at the street door and Larcher’s step 
going to open it, and then a muttered parley. Larcher softly 
opened the door and put her head into the sitting-room. 

“ There’s a gentleman asking for master, Miss Barbara,” she 
said. “ Shall I tell him to wait in the schoolroom ? Only there’s 
no fire.” 

“ Miss Copley knows me. May I come in, Miss Copley ?” said 
a man’s voice. 

Barbara stood up from her chair ; the last glimmer of light had 
died out of the room, but the firelight was strong and ruddy. 

“You will hardly remember me, I’m afraid,” said the new- 
comer. 

“ Oh yes, I remember you. I knew your voice,” answered 
Barbara, and the next moment her hand was in Gilbert Hazel’s. 

For a second or two they stood thus in silence, and then Bar- 
bara gently drew away her hand, and sank back into her chair. 
In the first moment of hearing his voice she had scarcely felt sur- 
prise ; it seemed as natural that he should have come back to her 
as that the sun should rise in the morning. But almost immedi- 
ately there came a reaction. Her limbs trembled under her, her 
heart began to beat thick and fast, and she leaned her head back 
against the cushion of Aunt Judith’s big arm-chair. 

“ And you have really, really not forgotton me ?” said Hazel, 
sitting down opposite to her. “ It is so long ago — but, of course, 
it could not seem so long to you, naturally. But I — You did 
not expect to see me ?” 


280 


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lie scarcely knew what be was saying ; his lips seemed to be 
speaking incoherent words without his will. All his soul was 
filled with the joy of seeing her again. In the fitful, flickering 
light, he ventured to gaze on her eagerly, as he would not have 
done had the room been brightly illuminated. The firelight 
sparkled in her clear hazel eyes, and shone on her glossy hair, 
and on the contour of her delicate, pale cheek. She was not 
changed. She was the same sweet, gentle, exquisite being whom 
he had loved with his heart’s best love in those happy weeks at 
Thornfield, and whom he should love now as long as that heart 
kept a pulse of life. 

“ Of course, I remember you,” answered Barbara, quietly. Her 
voice was, perhaps, a little fainter than usual ; but, although she 
felt that she could scarcely have stood firmly upright at that mo- 
ment, her manner had lost nothing of its accustomed soft com- 
posure. “ We have not so many friends that we can afford to 
forget any of them.” 

“ It is very sweet and good of you to say that, Miss Copley. 
But you must be surprised to see me here. If you thought of 
me at all, you must have thought of me as being still in India.” 

“ No. We heard — my uncle heard from a lady named Armour, 
whom he met in Switzerland, that you had left the army and re- 
turned to England.” 

“ From Mrs. Armour ! But how did she know it? I haven’t 
seen or heard anything of Mrs. Armour for years !” 

“ You seemed resolved that none of your friends should know 
much about you, if you could help it !” answered Barbara. Her 
nerves were steadying themselves now, and a faint tinge of color 
had come into her cheeks — a tinge scarcely deeper than the re- 
flecting of a rose-leaf held near them. 

“ I don’t reckon Mrs. Armour among my friends,” returned 
Hazel, quickly. “ But anyway, I’m sorry that Hughes heard this 
by chance. He might think, perhaps, that I ought to have writ- 
ten to him about it.” 

“ I think so,” said Barbara, after a very brief pause. 

Hazel drew his chair nearer, and leaned his hand on the table 
between them. “ Do you,” he said, “ do you indeed ? Then I am 
deeply grieved that I omitted to do so.” 

“ That is no reason for being grieved, Mr. Hazel. But, since 


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281 


you have touched on the point yourself, I must say I do think 
you should have written to my uncle. That is, if you still call 
yourself his friend.” 

Hazel was silent, and pushed back the thick, short hair from 
his forehead with a gesture habitual with him when he was per- 
plexed or thoughtful. Then he said in a low voice, “ I am sorry 
that Hughes should have blamed me — ” 

Barbara interrupted him. “ He ? Oh no ! He never blamed 
you. He defended you. But my uncle — you cannot know him 
as I do. You cannot tell how little all the sorrows of his life — 
and he has had such a hard life — have taken away from his natu- 
ral trustfulness. He puts the most generous construction on all 
that his friends do, and leave undone. But I am grudging for 
him ; and exacting, and proud. I cannot bear that he should not 
be fully appreciated. I cannot bear to suspect the shadow of a 
slight to him. Well, well, perhaps I was wrong. I dare say I 
have been misjudging you. But now I have spoken out the 
truth, you will not be angry. You will forgive me, won’t you?” 

“Forgive you! I have nothing to forgive. But indeed, in- 
deed, you have misjudged me a little.” 

“Oh, I am so glad !” whispered Barbara, with an exquisite smile. 

Before another word could be uttered, Larcher brought in the 
lamp, saying, “ There’s master’s key in the lock now, Miss Bar- 
bara.” And in another minute William Hughes was in the room, 
with outstretched hand, and the welcoming exclamation, “Hazel! 
Is it really you ? My dear fellow, I am so heartily glad to see 
you !” 

There was scarcely any outward likeness between Barbara and 
her uncle; but when they smiled, the smile had a certain irradiat- 
ing quality in both faces. This resemblance in expression struck 
Hazel now, while Barbara was helping to disengage her uncle 
from his wrap — the well-worn shepherd’s plaid, with which we 
have already become acquainted. And as he looked at his friend 
he saw that the two years had left some traces on Hughes’s face 
and figure. His head was more bent between the shoulders; 
there were streaks of silver in his thick raven-black hair ; and the 
lines of suffering round his mouth had deepened. But the bright, 
genial, selfless spirit of the man shone out clear as ever. There 
was no change in that. 


282 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ Now you must have some tea with us, and tell us all your ad- 
ventures,” he said, laying his hand affectionately on the other 
man’s shoulder. “Larcher — this is our dear old friend, Mrs. 
Larcher, Hazel, who has known me ever since I was a baby — have 
you any bacon and eggs in the house? Mr. Hazel can eat bacon 
aud eggs; I have seen him do it. I little thought what a pleasant 
surprise awaited me when I opened the door just now. Not that 
I was so much astonished as I should have been if I had heard 
nothing of you all this time. However much the world forget- 
ting, you have by no means been by the world forgot, I assure 
you !” 

Then the tea-board was brought, and William, as he drew his 
chair to the table, exclaimed joyously, “Why, it’s quite like old 
times ! Do you remember our high tea at Thornfield, Hazel ?” 

But by and by, when the first flush and excitement of the un- 
expected meeting had passed away, he began to look more 
anxiously at Hazel when he thought himself unobserved, and to 
watch his face as he spoke, or listened to, Barbara. And then 
William’s pleasant smile took a touch of sadness, and his kind 
eyes grew soft with pity. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Hazel’s story was soon told. Almost immediately after his 
return to India he had applied once more to that kinsman of his 
mother’s who had formerly offered to give him employment, and 
had received a civil but cool reply, to the effect that at present 
there was no opening. And between the lines of the letter he 
had read pretty plainly the writer’s meaning, to the effect that 
“ If you will not when you may, when you would you shall have 
nay.” 

It would be too much to say that Mr. Wilson (the kinsman in 
question) had been offended by Gilbert’s refusal to profit by his 
offer. But it clearly had not pleased him. It pleases no one to 
have a proffered favor rejected. Nevertheless, there was some- 
thing in the tone of Gilbert’s letter which he liked ; and not the 


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283 


least praiseworthy point in his eyes was that the handwriting was 
clear, steady, and unaffected. And then, somewhat over a twelve- 
month later, Mr. Wilson had written again to say that circum- 
stances had arisen which might enable him to give Mr. Hazel a 
berth, if Mr. Hazel were still desirous to leave the army and take 
to business. 

The circumstances alluded to proved to be the unexpected de- 
parture of a confidential cashier, which caused a general move- 
ment in the hierarchy of the counting-house. In giving Hazel a 
second chance, Mr. Wilson had been careful to point out to him 
that he guaranteed nothing ; it was a mere trial. The business 
might not suit Mr. Hazel, or he might not suit the business. 
Therefore, it behooved Mr. Hazel to think well before he decided ; 
and he added that, as things were now, Mr. Hazel would have to 
begin on a lower rung of the ladder than might have been the 
case when the first offer was made. 

Had he been absolutely penniless, Gilbert would have hesitated 
before throwing up his commission. But that was not the case. 
Bread to eat and a coat to his back he had wherewithal to pur- 
chase. So he wrote to Wilson, telling him that he thankfully 
accepted his proposal, and set off on his voyage back to England 
as quickly as it was possible to get the necessary preliminaries 
transacted. He had now been in Staffordshire some months, and 
was hopeful about the future. 

All this he narrated to his friends with the frankest and fullest 
confidence. 

“You see, my dear Hughes,” he said, “ I did not write to you 
about this until I saw, more or less, how it was likely to turn out. 
Why thrust my troubles on my friends ? But since things prom- 
ise well — nothing grand, you know, but good hope of a compe- 
tency — I thought I might venture now to come and report my- 
self. You understand, don’t you ?” 

Hughes understood very well. And his kind face grew still 
more compassionate. Barbara, who knew every turn of her un- 
cle’s countenance, and every tone of her uncle’s voice with the 
knowledge that belongs to sympathy, perceived that he was pre- 
occupied. But she was far from guessing why. It was natural 
that her uncle’s spirits should be oppressed by the thought of 
that evil inheritance (to Barbara it seemed as evil as it did to 


284 


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him) which would divide them from Claude in the future, and 
which had reopened old wounds, and made old sorrows quiver 
with a fresh pang. 

In all the talk they held that evening not a word was said 
about Dalton’s will. Hazel evidently knew nothing of the mat- 
ter; and it was not likely that William Hughes should volunteer 
to speak of it. 

They talked first, and chiefly, of Hazel’s new prospects, and of 
Mr. Wilson, whom he liked and praised. He was now in town 
on some business for his employer, and expected to remain but a 
few days, although it was possible that his stay might be some- 
what prolonged. In explaining how it was that they had heard 
of Hazel’s return to England, William Hughes was led to speak 
of Mrs. Armour. But Hazel said very little about that lady, and 
it was easy to see that he had no high opinion of her. And then 
William gave them some humorous reminiscences of the Pension 
Monplaisir, with a relish which no troubles had been able wholly 
to quench, and at which Hazel laughed enjoyingly, although, per- 
haps, he was not so fully alive to the fun of every point as he 
would have been had not Barbara been sitting opposite to him 
and absorbing his attention. 

But at length the time arrived when he must go away. 

“By the bye, when did you arrive in London?’’ asked William, 
when his guest rose from his chair. 

Hazel glanced shyly at Barbara, and a flush showed itself under 
the weather-tan of his face as he answered, 

“ Oh, at three fifty-five. The quick train.” 

“ What, to-day ?” 

“Yes; this afternoon. It was too late to do any business in 
the city, you know. Besides, I have made one or two appoint- 
ments for to-morrow forenoon.” 

“ Ay, ay ; to be sure !” answered William, thinking sadly that 
the poor fellow had lost not a moment in hastening to find Bar- 
bara. “ But then,” he added, aloud, “ where do you mean to put 
up ? Where are your traps ?” 

“Oh, my one valise is stored safe enough in my quarters. I. 
carried it there from the station. I’ve got a room at a place rec- 
ommended to me by one of our clerks — a boarding-house ; very 
cheap, and I hope not too nasty. It’s close to Red Lion Square.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


285 


“ Well, you’ll look us up again to-morrow,” said William, pain- 
fully divided between the overflowing hospitality of his heart and 
the anticipation of his friend’s suffering from the awakening of a 
hope that must now be crushed. “Look here, Hazel,” he said, 
after a moment. “ Drop in at my studio to-morrow, on your way 
back from the city. It’s just off Tottenham Court Road. Here’s 
the address. You will find me there up to half-past five or six. 
I am making some drawings in black-and-white for book illustra- 
tions, and I work at them by lamplight. We’ll have a pipe to- 
gether, and a — a chat. And then, if you like it, you can walk 
back with me, and Barbara and Larcher, between them, will give 
you something to eat.” 

“If he liked it!” There was no doubt in Hazel’s mind that 
he should like it very much ; and he said so, eagerly. But Will- 
iam was oppressed by the thought that when Hazel should have 
heard what he now felt it his duty to tell him, he might shrink 
from returning to Barbara’s presence. 

Then Hazel went out into the squalid, muddy streets, rapt in a 
golden vision of love and hope. She had been very still and 
quiet; but she was glad to see him! Her eyes and her smile 
said so ; and they never spoke anything but the truth. And 
then her reproaches for not having written ! Why should she 
have reproached him if she had cared nothing for him ? He un- 
derstood her feeling for her uncle. But would she have desired 
him to win her uncle’s good opinion if she had been wholly in- 
different to him herself? And, in the course of their conversa- 
tion that evening, he had noticed that her remembrance of the 
days at Thornfield Farm was as keen and minute as his own. 
And, as he pondered all these things, recalling every inflection of 
her voice, every varying expression of her sweet, guileless face, he 
almost resolved to put his fate to the proof, and to tell her on the 
morrow how dearly he loved her. 

It was still early when he reached the boarding-house ; but he 
proposed going straight to his room. Wishing, however, to ask 
the mistress of the house to let him have his breakfast early the 
next morning, and being told by the servant that she was in the 
drawing-room, he repaired thither to seek her. 

As he opened the door, he heard a loud voice saying emphat- 
ically, “ I will not avouch that Mr. Claude Copley’s manners are 


286 


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altogether engaging; nor even commonly civil. But his uncle, 
Mr. Hughes, is quite the gentleman, and plays on the guitar most 
beautifully.” 

Hazel looked with some curiosity at the speaker, in whom the 
reader will have recognized Miss Jenks. Then he said the neces- 
sary words to his landlady, and was about to leave the room, when 
Miss Junks’s eloquence again arrested his attention. 

She was talking now about Claude’s legacy. The story of 
Claude Copley’s legacy, and of Mr. Dalton’s strange will, and 
singular character, and vast wealth, was by this time in the mouths 
of a great many persons who had never beheld, and were never 
likely to behold, any of the parties concerned. It may be im- 
agined, therefore, with what an eager relish every scrap of gossip 
on the subject was devoured in that genteel boarding-house which 
two of the most prominent personages in the “Dalton will case” 
had actually distinguished by their bodily presence ! 

Mr. Copley, as the person who had got all the money, was nat- 
urally the chief object of interest. But Mrs. Armour, as the per- 
son who ought to have got it, occupied a scarcely less prominent 
position. No one seemed to be able to say why she ought to 
have had the bulk of Mr. Dalton’s money ; but the impression 
had gone forth that she was specially aggrieved and ill-treated. 
If her case did not attract much sympathy, it aroused, at all 
events, a great deal of inquisitive interest. Mrs. Armour was not 
popular in the London boarding-house, any more than she had 
been at Monplaisir. But everybody enjoyed talking about her 
just at present. She herself had not reappeared in the neighbor- 
hood of Red Lion Square since the reading of the will, so that 
conversation flowed on delightfully untrammelled. 

Miss Jenks, by reason of her personal acquaintance both with 
the fortunate heir and the disinherited niece, was the object of 
peculiar attention, and for a long time had the field to herself. 
There was, to be sure, one drawback to the pleasure of listening 
to Miss Jenks — she was not imaginative. Or, at all events, her 
fictions, when she uttered any, were of a strongly utilitarian cast, 
designed rather for her own individual advantage than for the en- 
tertainment of her fellow-creatures, and were thus apt to be a lit- 
tle monotonous and dry. Still, there was at this time such a charm 
in the mere mention of the names of Copley and Armour that 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


287 


Miss Jenks was surrounded by a circle of listeners in the drawing- 
room every evening. 

After her admiring mention of Mr. William Hughes, an eager 
boarder inquired, 

“Does he come in for anything?” 

“ I am not at liberty to say,” replied Miss Jenks, majestically. 

“ Oh ! You don’t know !” snapped out the eager boarder. 

“ Well, whether he comes in for anything or not,” answered 
Miss Jenks, quite undisturbed by the insinuation, “ Mr. William 
Hughes can do without it very well, I assure you ; for he is a 
most celebrated painter, and last season one of his pictures was 
bought by the Grand Duke of Cashmere.” 

“Grand Duke of what?' 1 cried the eager boarder, with a mali- 
cious gleam in her eye. 

But Miss Jenks, being very uncertain as to the proper style 
and title of the illustrious purchaser, and feeling that this was 
dangerous ground, feigned to be unconscious of the question, and 
promptly removed the conversation to a safer point — namely, the 
great disappointment of Mrs. Armour, and the probability that 
she would “ bring an action.” Miss Jenks had no distinct idea 
against whom the action would be brought, nor in what it would 
consist. But that did not detract from the zest she had in men- 
tioning the probability. 

Hazel listened with increasing astonishment. He had seated 
himself at a distant table, and taken up a magazine lying there as 
an excuse to linger. But after a few minutes he drew near to the 
group around Miss Jenks, and addressed that lady without cere- 
mony. 

“ Excuse me,” he said, “ but will you allow me to ask a ques- 
tion or two about this will case? My apology for venturing to 
do so is that I am a friend of some of the persons who have just 
been spoken of.” 

There was a sudden silence, and people looked uneasily at one 
another. But almost immediately up and spoke Miss Jenks, with 
her accustomed dauntless firmness, and boldly asked the very 
question which the others were casting about in their minds how 
to get answered : 

“Are you a friend of Mrs. Armour?” inquired Miss Jenks, 
solemnly. 


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THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“The friends I was alluding to are Mr. William Hughes, the 
painter, and his family. I have been absent many years from 
England, and have not happened to hear anything of this Dalton 
will case — I think that is what you called it?” 

At these words every tongue was loosened. But in a very 
short time — partly, no doubt, owing to her superior weight of 
metal, if the phrase may pass, and partly, also, because the rest 
of the company really did believe her to know more of the mat- 
ter than they did — Miss Jenks was left sole spokeswoman. Her 
narrative was neither clear nor accurate ; but it served to give 
Hazel the main outline of what he wanted to know ; and it was 
elucidated by a good deal of comment and contradiction on the 
part of the audience. The eager boarder in particular, though 
far from wishing to cast any aspersion on respectable persons 
now living, felt herself compelled to remark that there could be 
no doubt of Mr. Dalton’s having been mixed up with a very ugly 
story connected with some member or members of the Hughes 
family many years ago. Oh yes; she didn’t dispute that Mr. 
Hughes was quite the gentleman — although his nephew did not 
appear to be what she considered well-bred ! — nor yet that he 
played in a superior manner on the guitar. It might be so. But 
what she would and must say was, that riches didn’t give you 
peace of mind unless your conscience was at rest. Otherwise, 
why should Dalton go and hide away from his family all those 
years? And if once they threw the case into Chancery, she (the 
eager boarder) could assure them that there would be very little 
left for anybody ! The suggestion of which contingency was re- 
ceived with strong tokens of public approval. 

In the solitude of his own room, Hazel thought long and anx- 
iously of what he had heard. The existence of some painful 
story, connecting the Hughes family with Dalton in the past, 
would account for what otherwise seemed so inexplicable — the 
silence of William and Barbara about this important event of 
Claude’s legacy. “ Well,” said Hazel to himself, “ I thank Heav- 
en that, be this money what it may, and let it come from whence 
it may, it has been left to the brother, and none of it to Barbara. 
They all agreed about that. How could I come back and woo a 
rich heiress, when I held my peace to that penniless young girl 
whom I knew at Thornfield Farm ?” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


289 


The story, and the way in which he had heard it told, had 
annoyed him. But nevertheless the remembrance of Barbara’s 
sweet face, and Barbara’s sweet low voice, made a serene glad- 
ness in his heart beyond the reach of such vexations. If she 
loved him — if that one supreme happiness could be his, what else 
could be wrong for him in the world? If that were not to be — 
God bless her, and make her happy ; and for him let the end of 
it all come, the sooner the better ! 

The first of h is appointments next morning was for half-past 
ten o’clock ; and Hazel would keep the hour with military punc- 
tuality. But there was time between his early breakfast and the 
hour when he should be due in the city to rush off to the Har- 
row Road, and to the shabby little house in the shabby little 
street hard by where she lived, and to pace up and down there 
for ten minutes on the chance of seeing her — at any rate, to look 
up at her window, and to see the outside of the casket that held 
his matchless pearl of women. It would doubtless have seemed 
a very unwise proceeding to most spectators. The morning was 
dark, the pavement dirty, the air damp and raw. But the pre- 
ciousness of pearls varies, as we know, with the nature of the 
creature that finds them. 

Fortune favored Gilbert Hazel ; for he had not been five min- 
utes in the street before the door of the Hugheses’ house was 
opened, and forth stepped Barbara, in her old cloak and black 
hat, carrying a parcel of books in a strap. Hazel was some little 
way up the street on the opposite side of it, and she did not see 
him. Her face looked sadder and paler than it had looked last 
night. And — was it his fancy, or were there traces of tears about 
her eyelids ? 

He stood for a moment irresolute ; longing to hear the sound 
of her voice — to take her hand. But then he determined to re- 
frain from doing so. She was going to her daily task, poor child ! 
He would not risk startling her from her composure, just for the 
brief word of greeting which was all that time allowed them just 
then. He had seen her. That was worth the pilgrimage he had 
made, a hundred times over! Yes; there was a shade of trouble 
in that sweet face. Could it be connected with the story of the 
will that those people had been chattering about last night? Oh, 
if he might but shield her, and guard her on her way through 
19 


290 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


this rough world, and carry her over the miry places in his loving 
arms, so that her dainty little feet should be safe from smirch or 
chill ! Sweet, patient, gentle, darling Barbara ! 

Then he went off on the top of an omnibus towards Fleet 
Street, and acquitted himself with good discretion of Mr. Wil- 
son’s business. v 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

On the day following that on which Gilbert Hazel so unexpect- 
edly reappeared to Barbara Copley, Fritz and his cousin Olga 
paid a visit to Miss Hughes at Norwood. And we must go back 
a little in the course of our story, in order to explain how that 
came to pass. 

It may be remembered that Olga Kettering had been to see 
Barbara, and to inquire for Claude, after the reading of the will. 
Neither her father nor her mother had made any objection to her 
accompanying Sally Stringer to the Hugheses’ house. 

It would not be fair to say that the revulsion of opinion in 
favor of the Hughes family, which was very generally observable 
about this time, was wholly due to the fact (established now be- 
yond doubt or quibble) that Claude Copley was the acknowl- 
edged heir to the bulk of Dalton’s wealth. But it might not be 
very far from the truth to say that many persons were now dis- 
posed to examine the evidence who had previously assumed the 
Hugheses to have been guilty of secret and underhand manoeuvres 
in order to get the money. 

And this evidence, when inquired into, was all in their favor. 
Messrs. Rivett & Plumb testified that Dalton had gained all the 
information he had about Claude Copley solely through their 
means. It was years since he had written from America, bidding 
them make private inquiries as to the surviving descendants of 
the late David Hughes of Marypool. During these visits to Eng- 
land, the revelation of which had so startled Juliet Armour, Mr. 
Dalton had particularly desired to keep his presence secret from 
the Hughes family ; and had never — the lawyers declared them- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


291 


selves convinced — seen, or been seen by, any member of it. All 
this was brought to Mr. Kettering’s knowledge through Sally 
Stringer. And Mr. Kettering had latterly spoken very hand- 
somely of the Hugheses, acquitting them of any ill-behavior in 
the matter of the will, and even declaring that, after all, the old 
rascal (meaning Christopher Dalton) might have done worse with 
his money. 

Mrs. Armour, to be sure, had been hardly used. He was really 
sorry for Mrs. Armour’s disappointment. Eh? The sister? Oh 
yes ! of course Miss Kirby’s case was equally hard. No doubt it 
was. But it appeared that Mrs. Armour had been a little rash, 
and had set up exaggerated expectations. It now came out that 
none of the Kirbys had even taken the trouble to discover 
whether Dalton were alive or dead for nearly twenty years past. 
So that he could scarcely be expected, when once his sister was 
dead, to interest himself particularly in the second generation. 
Moreover, Mr. Kettering was afraid that Mrs. Armour had been 
intemperate and undignified under her disappointment. He was 
very sorry for Mrs. Armour, but he did fear that she had sinned 
a little against good taste. There was Lady Lambton now ; how 
different had been her behavior ! 

It was quite true that after the first shock Amy had borne her 
disappointment at the terms of the will in such a manner as to 
win a great deal of praise. The fact was (although the statement 
would have been rejected as incredible by every one of the other 
disappointed candidates) that the chief bitterness she felt had 
arisen from wounded vanity. The wound had been given by a 
side-stroke in the wording of the bequest to Sally Stringer. Miss 
Stringer was lauded and rewarded for not having made any pro- 
fessions of regard to the rich man. The mortification of this was 
at first very sharp to Amy Lambton, remembering her own ad- 
mirable letters to Dalton. But it did not take her very long to 
persuade herself that, although she personally had not benefited 
by Dalton’s money, yet the bequest to her mother and sisters was 
doubtless due to the charm of her eloquent epistles. The house 
and land in Essex were of no great value — would not probably 
produce a bare six thousand pounds to be invested for Mrs. Short- 
way. But the possession of six thousand pounds would make an 
enormous difference to the Shortway family. It meant ease of 


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mind and comfort of body secured to Amy’s parents for the rest 
of their days. 

And let it not be supposed that Amy was indifferent to this 
consideration, nor that, after the first burst of disappointment, 
she begrudged her sisters their little dowry. If only Dalton had 
had the grace to put it on record by whose influence the bequest 
had been obtained for them ! But, as she told them in Gower 
Street, she was thankful that her letters to Mr. Dalton had secured 
so good a provision for her mother and sisters — very thankful. 

On the whole, Mr. Kettering considered Lady Lambton to have 
behaved very well. 

Mrs. Kettering was not quite so cordial in her approval of Lady 
Lambton. Lady Lainbton might have behaved well enough about 
the will, but why did she flirt with Rhodonides? There was Fritz. 
Why didn’t she stick to Fritz? 

“ But, my dear Gertrude,” said Mr. Kettering, “ allow me to 
point out to you that Fritz shows no inclination to ‘ stick to’ Lady 
Lambton, as you not very elegantly express it. And it really does 
seem as though he had found metal more attractive.” 

“Do you mean Miss Copley, Philip? I don’t believe Fritz will 
be so silly as to marry Miss Copley.” 

“H’m ! The silliness — which, I presume, only applies to Miss 
Copley’s worldly circumstances. You have no personal objection 
to her, my dear ?” 

“ Oh, I like Miss Copley very much, Philip ; but I think it 
would be very silly of Fritz to marry her.” 

“ Well, but you see the silliness of marrying a poor young lady 
is to a great extent removed now. Miss Copley’s only brother is, 
or will be in a month or two, very rich. Really — very — rich,” 
repeated Mr. Kettering, slowly and emphatically, as who should 
say, “ You observe that I call him rich, and my standard of riches 
is a high one.” “ I understand that the young man is in very 
delicate health. Ilis natural heirs would be — but, in any case, it 
cannot be supposed that he should not make some suitable pro- 
vision for his sister. The connection would now be a — a — a very 
different one, indeed.” 

“Well, I don’t believe Fritz will be so silly as to marry Miss 
Copley,” returned Mrs. Kettering, in precisely the same placid 
tone as before. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


293 


Of course, not all the particulars of these and other similar con- 
versations between her father and mother were known to Olga; 
but equally, of course, their influence was felt in the altered tone 
assumed by Mr. Kettering about Miss Copley ; and when Fritz 
informed the Ketterings that Miss Hughes and her grandnephew 
were lodging near the Crystal Palace in order to give young Cop- 
ley change of air, and suggested that Miss Stringer and Olga 
should run down there with him and pay Miss Hughes a visit, 
Mr. Kettering graciously observed that he thought it would be a 
very becoming thing to do, and would, no doubt, be gratefully 
appreciated. 

So the little excursion was arranged, but at the last moment 
Sally cried off. She had something else to do ; she was tired ; 
she didn’t want to go. No, she had not promised ; she had only 
not said “ No.” In a word, there was no moving her, and at 
length Fritz exclaimed, impatiently, 

“ Well then, Olga, we must go by ourselves !” 

Olga hesitated. “ Do you think we can, Sally ?” she asked, 
wistfully ; for neither her father nor mother was at home. 

“ I should suppose so ! Is there any greater difficulty in going 
to Norwood than to Kensington Gardens, or to Highgate, where 
you walked the other day ?” 

“ Difficulty ? No ; only — ” 

But Fritz cut the discussion short by peremptorily bidding 
Olga get her hat on, or they should miss the train ; and he wished 
to arrive in good time so as to show Olga a certain view from a 
certain point on the hill, before they made their call. And Fritz 
got his own way. 

It was a fine winter’s day. The air, even at that short distance 
from the centre of London smoke, was already far purer than the 
atmosphere they had left behind ; and the distant landscape, tint- 
ed with soft, unreal-looking lilacs, and pearl-grays, and opaline 
haze, was enchanting. Olga, at least, thought so as she walked 
beside her cousin with her hand on his arm. 

Now Fritz had reserved to himself a certain discretion in the 
matter of keeping secret his position with respect to Barbara. 
He would not reveal it to any one “ for the present,” he had told 
her. But that “present” was now some weeks old. And find- 
ing, as he had done of late, so very much happiness in confiding 


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to Olga his thoughts, aims, views, and wishes on a great variety 
of subjects, it was only natural that he should feel impelled to 
make the further confidence of his suit to Miss Copley. The im- 
pulse came upon him strongly as they walked that day, and he 
yielded to it. 

Olga received the news very quietly. Indeed, at first she only 
said, “ Yes, Fritz ; I was sure of it.” But presently she added, 
“I wish you joy, and I think she is very good and charming. 
She must — she must be very fond of you, Fritz.” 

“ My dear child, that is exactly what she is not.” 

“ Oh, Fritz, it’s impossible !” 

“ Too good of you to say so !” answered he, smiling, and rais- 
ing his eyebrows. 

A bright, quick flash dyed her face. She removed her hand 
from his arm to the interior of her muff, and drew her straight 
young figure a trifle more upright, as she said, “Of course, if you 
— since you have told her you love her, I mean.” 

Fritz shook his head. “ I assure you even that did not call 
forth an expression of tenderness. No doubt she ought to adore 
me — only she doesn’t.” 

There was a silence which lasted so long that Fritz asked his 
cousin if she felt tired. 

“ Oh no.” 

“ Won’t you take my arm again ? I think we keep step better so.” 

“No, thanks; my hand is warmer in my muff.” 

Another silence. 

“Well?” said Fritz. “Have you no word of wisdom for me, 
Cousinchen 

“ I never have words of wisdom.” 

“ Well — words of sympathy, then ?” 

“ I — look here, Fritz— I don’t understand you. You seem not 
to be in earnest !” 

“Not in earnest? I beg your pardon! I am very much in 
earnest.” 

“ But then — how is it ? Miss Copley hasn’t refused you, 
Fritz ?” 

“ No ; but she hasn’t accepted me.” 

“ I don’t understand,” repeated Olga, shaking her head, and 
pressing her lips together. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


295 


Then Fritz proceeded to explain the position as well as he 
could ; and in the course of his explanation he was led on by one 
or two brief questions from Olga (who, however, said very little) 
to set forth his theory of 4 falling in love, as regarded himself per- 
sonally. “You see,” he said, “I can talk to you, Olga, as I 
could talk to scarcely any one else. I never met any one more 
clear-headed, or possessed of a quicker insight into certain psy- 
chological phenomena, than you are, when you give your mind 
fair play.” 

But on this occasion Olga did not show her usual docility and 
intelligence. 

“ The upshot of it all is, so far as I can see,” said she, obsti- 
nately, “ that Miss Copley doesn’t love you a bit ; and you don’t 
love her a bit.” 

“ Olga, how can you talk in that childish way ? I tell you I 
do love Miss Copley. But my affection is based on reason. I 
could have checked it at first. I examined my own mind step by 
step. I perceived that, as a companion for life, Miss Copley was 
all I could wish for : cultivated, intelligent, very amiable, a lady 
to the finger-tips. I believe that an immense amount of mischief 
is done in the world by that foolish assumption that it is in some 
way fine and praiseworthy to give one’s self up blindly to the pas- 
sion of love, while yet we admit that other passions should be 
fought and conquered.” 

“ Well, perhaps one may reason one’s self out of love; but one 
can’t reason one’s self into it; and that’s what you’re trying to 
do,” answered Olga, with, possibly, rather more “ psychological 
insight ” than Fritz was quite prepared to expect. “ But,” she 
added, quickly, “ as far as reason goes, I think you have made a 
very good choice. Don’t imagine I mean otherwise ! and every- 
body seems to think so too — now.” 

Being required to explain this utterance, Olga confessed how 
her parents had at first strongly set themselves against the idea of 
Fritz’s attachment to Miss Copley (Fritz at once surmised that the 
first hint of such a possibility must have come from his mother, 
but said nothing); and how their opinion, latterly, had changed; 
and how highly her father in particular had spoken of Miss 
Copley. 

“Oh, indeed!” said Fritz, rather coldly. “Well, I am glad 


296 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Uncle Philip approves; although, of course, that could make no 
real difference as to my conduct in this case.” 

“ I think it ought to make a difference in your satisfaction, at 
any rate — on reasonable grounds, you know.” 

“You don’t see this matter with your usual perspicacity, Olga. 
Reason concerns itself in such a case as this — with what the two 
parties chiefly interested think of each other: not with what any 
third person may think of either.” 

“Oh! Reason doesn’t care for anybody’s opinion? Then I 
don’t see how it is so very much wiser than love !” 

“ Um Gotteswillen , Olga!” cried Fritz, impatiently. “Don’t 
you see — can’t you understand ? Look here ! Put the case to 
yourself in this way : Suppose, just for the sake of argument, 
that Uncle Philip and Aunt Gertrude wanted you to marry some- 
body ; say, just for the sake of argument, Rhodonides, for in- 
stance. Well, from their point of view, the idea might be more 
or less reasonable. But, from yours, it would, of course, be ab- 
surd, and — ” 

“ I don’t know that.” 

“ What ! You don’t know that ?” echoed Fritz, stopping short, 
and looking round at her. 

“ No ; I don’t know that at all.” 

“ Olga, he’s an ass !” 

“ Pm not sure that he is. He may not be a philosopher ; but — ” 

“Philosopher ! How can you talk such nonsense? You could 
never care for such a fellow as Rhodonides — you know you 
couldn’t.” 

“ How do I know ? If papa and mamma thought I ought to 
care for him, and there was nothing against his character, or his 
temper, or his manners — and there is nothing so far as I know — 
why shouldn’t I reason myself into caring for him if he cared for 
me ?” 

Fritz’s blue eyes flashed, and his eyebrows were knitted an- 
grily. “ Oh, of course, if you choose to talk merely for the 
sake of being provoking, there is no more to be said,” he muttered. 

And then they marched on side by side up a steep slope at a 
tearing pace and in total silence. 

All at once Fritz stopped abruptly. They were both flushed 
and panting. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


297 


“Olga,” said Fritz, speaking in a soft voice, and trying, not 
very successfully, to see her face under the brim of her hat, “ I’m 
afraid I came up the hill too fast for you.” 

“ Not at all.” 

“ I beg your pardon if I did.” 

“ Not at all.” 

“ Olga — Olga, do you know I believe we very nearly had a 
quarrel ! We never quarrelled before, did we ? If I spoke roughly, 
I am very sorry. Please forgive me.” 

“ I think,” said Olga, in a constrained little voice, “ that if an 
apology is due to any one, it is due to Mr. Perikles Rhodonides. 
We have been making all kinds of ridiculous suppositions about 
him, and he has never said a word to warrant them.” 

“Hasn’t he? But, of course, he hasn’t! You wouldn’t have 
let him ! Say you wouldn’t, Olga !” 

“ I can’t say anything about it.” 

“ But you can ! That’s a mere subterfuge — There, there ; don’t 
let us begin again. Take my arm.” 

“No; never mind that now, thanks. Are we far from Miss 
Hughes’s lodgings, Fritz?” 

“ Eh ? Far from — Upon my word, I am not quite sure where 
we are ! I missed the way somehow while we were talking. Oh, 
it is of no consequence — the affair of ten minutes more or less. I 
think that will be our turning yonder. Do take my arm. Non- 
sense ! Give me your hand, or I shall think you haven’t 
forgiven me. There, that’s much better. What a brute I was 
to rush you up here at such a pace ! But you ought to 
have checked me. We’ll go down more gently. I say, Olga, 
you were not serious, were you? You wouldn’t have Rhodon- 
ides supposing, just for argument’s sake, that he were to ask 
you ?” 

“ What would it matter to you if I did ?” 

“What would it matter ! What would it matter if you — ah ! 
what do you deserve for making such a speech, you wicked 
gypsy ?” For there was a little spark of laughter — or was it a 
tear? That hat-brim was plaguily in the way! — in Olga’s eye, 
and a little quivering smile at the corner of her mouth. “You 
know very well, Olga, that there isn’t a creature in the world 
whom I’m fonder of than you !” 


298 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“Except Miss Copley.” 

“ Oh 1— yes.” 

Then they went down the hill, and made their way to Miss 
Hughes’s lodgings. And they were again silent. But this silence 
was not like the former one. Each was absorbed in his or her 
own thoughts ; but they were, at least, not angry thoughts. And 
Fritz pressed the little neatly gloved hand on his arm gently to 
his side now and then, as though to assure himself it had not 
sullenly withdrawn again to the shelter of the muff. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Once more Gilbert Hazel was pacing up and down that shabby 
little street hard by the Harrow Road. It was dark now ; and a 
dim light came through the yellow blind of the little front parlor. 
Barbara was there ! He could picture her sitting opposite to her 
uncle in the big arm-chair. Perhaps she had some needlework in 
her hand ; perhaps a book. He knew how she looked, with her 
head bent down, and the lamplight showing the gloss of her soft 
brown hair ! 

It was not much past seven o’clock ; but the wintry sky was 
black as it would be at midnight. To Hazel it seemed like a fu- 
neral pall spread above him. 

Too late — too late! Why had he been doomed to come too 
late? 

With what boyish eagerness he had hurried to William 
Hughes’s studio that afternoon ! How he had rejoiced in the 
despatch he had used in his business, thinking that so an hour 
was gained of Barbara’s company — or, at the very least, an hour 
in which he might speak of her, and hear her praises (for one 
who knew her, to speak of her was to praise her !), and get, per- 
haps, a cheerful encouraging word, bidding him godspeed in his 
suit ! And he had but hastened the hearing of his. own sentence, 
lie had darkened the last rosy moments of the sunset; he had 
shaken the last sands from the glass with his own hand ! 

Barbara was lost to him ! 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


299 


That, at first, was all he knew — all that Hughes’s words con- 
veyed to him. What could he care for details — the how, the 
where? Pain such as he felt is absorbing. He had no faculty to 
spare for anything but the effort to bear this blow as a man 
should bear it; and to bear it so he must be alone. He could not 
remain in the presence even of William Hughes. Sympathy, 
friendship — these might come later. Now there was just the 
pain, and the pride of his manhood striving to bear it. 

He had gone out into the streets, and walked about like a man 
in a dream. The beings around him flitted by like so many 
ghosts. Everything seemed unreal. Everything — but the pain 
and the struggle to endure it, and be master of himself. 

He found himself in that poor little street he had trodden so 
hopefully only a few hours ago. And then by degrees he awoke 
to the understanding of much that Hughes had said, and that had 
lain dormant in his consciousness. 

How had it been, then ? Yes ; this man, who was rich and cult- 
ured, and who could give her so much that poor Gilbert Hazel 
could not give — he loved her. That was of course ! He must 
love her, since his good Fate had given him the opportunity of 
being near her — of frequenting her home as a familiar guest; 
of watching the beauty of her mind and soul in the broad day- 
light of daily life. And Hughes had called this man generous 
and honorable ; and had praised him for his delicacy and sin- 
cerity, and a hundred good qualities. 

Yes ; they all came back to him now, the words he had heard, 
not comprehending or not heeding ; for what did it matter to 
him, with that great pain at his heart, and the knowledge that he 
must never hope to have Barbara for his wife? 

But it did matter. 

He told himself now, as he walked up and down the muddy 
pavement outside her window, that it mattered vitally. For if he 
must live thenceforward the sadder for her sake, yet she might be 
happy. That was much. That was everything. It should be 
everything — only there was the pain at his heart. But he knew 
the first keen sharpness of it would pass. He was a man, and he 
had the courage of a man. 

Let him try to recall all that Hughes had said ! He remem- 
bered crying out passionately, “ Does she love him ? Tell me, 


300 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


does she love him ? Tell me, does she love him !” And Hughes 
had answered vaguely — seeming, indeed, almost to shrink from 
speaking of Barbara’s feelings, as something too sacred to be 
touched. He went back, by a strong effort of memory, over 
every detail of that interview. 

As he did so, still pacing up and down, a hansom cab dashed 
up to the door of Hughes’s house, and a young man alighted 
from it. He was in evening dress; Hazel could see the white 
cravat as his overcoat fell back a little, and he carried a bouquet 
of flowers in his hand. A tall, upright, well-built fellow, Hazel 
measured him with a soldier’s eye. He was so near that he 
heard the stranger ask Larcher, who opened the door, how Miss 
Copley was ; and bid the old servant say that he had been that 
day at Norwood, and had seen Miss Hughes, who was very well, 
and sent her love; and Mr. Claude was much better. He had 
ventured to bring a few flowers for Miss Copley. He was en- 
gaged that evening. But Larcher was to tell Mr. Hughes that he 
hoped to come and beg for some tea to-morrow afternoon, and 
give them all the news of Norwood. Then he got into the cab 
again, and, mentioning the name of a theatre, bade the driver 
pelt along as hard as he could, for he was late. 

Hazel heard it all — even to the slight foreign accent, and the 
little guttural sound of certain letters. 

So that was the man! And he might go in there, into that 
room, and sit near her, and speak to her, and hear her thank him 
for his flowers in that voice that was sweeter than sweet music, 
and see that smile that was like a ray shining straight out of 
heaven — he had the privilege of doing this, and he drove away 
and left it behind him ! 

And then Hazel lifted his head and looked at the dim light 
behind the yellow blind ; and, with a new strength of purpose in 
his face, he said to himself, 

“Yes; if she is to be happy, I will fold my arms and go down, 
and the waters shall close over my head. But I will be sure first 
that it is for her happiness. If there’s a doubt, by the help of 
God, I’ll swim for it !” 

Perhaps no explanation that could have been given of Mr. 
Hofmann’s behavior on this occasion would have satisfied Bar- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


301 


bara’s less fortunate lover; but then the latter was, as Mrs. Ar- 
mour bad disparagingly remarked of him, high-flown and romantic. 

The true explanation, however, was this : 

Fritz, when he brought Olga home from Norwood, was met by 
Mrs. Kettering, with the request that he would escort his cousins 
to the play that evening. She and Mr. Kettering were engaged 
out to dinner; Sally Stringer had returned to her own house, and 
there was no one with whom to send the girls. Ida had leave 
from Dr. Slocombe to go. Would not Fritz take them? 

Fritz demurred. He purposed spending his evening otherwise. 
Then his Aunt Gertrude had spoken more confidentially. The 
fact was, the ticket for a private box had been brought to the 
house that afternoon by Perikles Rliodonides. It was his mother’s 
box, and had been placed at his disposition. He had heard the 
young ladies say they wished to see this particular piece, and he 
knew there were no places to be had for weeks to come, and so 
he had ventured to offer Mrs. Kettering the box. 

“ I refused at first, because Uncle Philip and I are engaged, you 
know. But then I thought of you, Fritz. I was so sure you 
wouldn’t mind. And Rliodonides looked so disappointed when I 
told him I feared we could not accept !” 

“Upon my word, Aunt Gertrude, I do not care one straw 
whether he is disappointed or not.” 

“ Oh, Fritzchen , that is very disagreeable of you ! But the girls 
would be disappointed, too.” 

At this point Ida burst into the room, and preferred her own 
petition without the least reticence or dignity. What! Did Fritz 
refuse to take them to the play ? Oh, she couldn’t believe he 
would be so nasty and horrid ! The first chance she had had, too, 
of going out for ages and ages ! And she and Olga had been 
longing to see this particular play, more than any other play that 
had ever been played. Why, Fritz might think himself lucky to 
get the chance. Of course he would enjoy it : only he chose to 
be so grand and give himself airs, and pretend he liked reading 
metaphysics better than going to the play, which was absurd on the 
face of it to any sane mind! Oh, but would he? Would he really ? 
Then he was a dear, and a duck, and a Gold- Fritzchen , hurrah ! 

And away ran Ida to tell her sister the news, and pin Fritz to 
his consent beyond the possibility of retractation, 


302 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ I dare say Rhodonides will look in on yon in the course of 
the evening,” said Mrs. Kettering, complacently, when the matter 
was settled. 

“ Oh, of course !” grumbled Fritz. “ That’s le mot de Venigme. 
That’s what the whole business is got up for.” 

“ Fritz !” 

“ Oh, understand me, Aunt Gertrude. Pray don’t imagine me 
guilty of the impertinence of applying that phrase to you ! But 
it’s plain enough to be seen what Rhodonides is after.” 

“ It wasn’t at all plain to you until I told you,” rejoined Mrs. 
Kettering, with her quiet, matter-of-fact bluntness, which some- 
times had the force of a sarcasm. “ But I think you are right 
now ; and why should he not have his chance ? When you fall in 
love yourself, Fritz, you will have a fellow-feeling for such little 
ruses de guerre .' 1 ' 1 

Fritz was silent for a minute. Then he said, with his own 
good-humored smile, “ Well, it’s a comfort to know that one of the 
party will enjoy his coming, anyway. How delightful to be six- 
teen, and to venture to say out what you mean, what you like, and 
what you dislike, without fear or favor !” 

“If you are alluding to me,” exclaimed Ida, who returned just 
in time to hear this speech, “I beg to say that I am seventeen and 
a quarter; and I scarcely ever dare say what I mean, because what 
I mean generally turns out to be impolite to somebody ! But I do 
mean that you are a darling for taking us to the play to-night — 
and Olga says the same.” 

“ Did Olga say I was a darling ?” 

“ Oh, well, not exactly those words, you know. But when I 
told her you would go, she turned quite red with joy.” 

Then Fritz took his leave. He would not return to dine at the 
Ketterings’ house. He had one or two little matters to attend to. 
But he would be in waiting at the door of the theatre to hand his 
cousins out of their carriage at a quarter before eight punctually. 

The event fully justified Fritz’s declaration that at least one 
member of the party would enjoy the evening. Ida came home 
radiant; and after Olga, pleading fatigue, had gone to bed, Ida sat 
by the fire in her mother’s dressing-room, chatting in the highest 
spirits. 

The play had been lovely ; and their box had been the very 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


303 


best in the house for seeing and hearing; and Mr. Rhodonides, 
who had a stall just beneath them, came up after the first act, and 
stayed in their box all the rest of the time. And he had made 
himself so agreeable! He knew the names of so many persons in 
the house, and he knew some of them personally, and he told Ida 
who they were, and all sorts of interesting things about them. 

“But, Ida, I hope you didn’t bore him?” said her mother. 
“You know you sometimes ask too many questions.” 

“No, mamma, I didn’t bore him the least bit ! He’s just like 
me; he thinks it very tiresome to be always talking up in the 
clouds about what Fritz calls abstract questions. He says he 
likes people who are not ashamed to take an interest in the real 
things around them. Stay ! I believe it was I who said that. 
But he quite agreed with me, and he hates theories. I think 
theories only muddle people. And Mr. Rhodonides thinks so 
too.” 

“And was Fritz civil to him?” asked Mrs. Kettering, after a 
little pause. 

“ Civil to him ? Oh yes. I don’t think they talked to each 
other much. But they shook hands and all that, when we came 
out.” 

“ And — Olga ?” 

“ Olga didn’t talk much either. But, mamma, I never saw Olga 
look so pretty as she looked to-night. Her eyes shone so, and she 
had such a color ! That new frock shows off her white throat 
and arms so well. I wish my arms were plump and pretty like 
Olga’s. Everybody was admiring her. I saw lots of people look- 
ing at her through their opera-glasses. But I don’t think she 
noticed them ; and I didn’t say anything.” 

“ And she looked pleased — happy ?” inquired the mother. 

“ As pleased as Punch ! And now I suppose I must go to bed. 
And mind you tell Dr. Slocombe how much good going to the 
theatre has done me.” 

Fritz had laughingly told Ida, in reply to her eager questions 
as they were driving home, that he had been a victim and a 
martyr ; and that she never could be grateful enough for the 
sacrifice he had made in giving up his serious evening for her 
frivolous amusement. But he admitted to himself that the 
hours so spent had been pleasant to him. And then he resolved 


304 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


to carry out forthwith an intention which had been for some 
time in his mind. 

This intention was to offer Hughes the commission to paint a 
picture for him. It could be done, he thought, without incurring 
the suspicion of desiring rather to serve the artist than to please 
himself; for he had noticed on the wall of Miss Hughes’s little 
sitting-room a spirited sketch of the port of Marypool from the 
heights above the town; and he knew that he could make no more 
acceptable present to his mother than a finished painting from that 
sketch, if Hughes would undertake it. So in the afternoon of the 
day following the visit to the theatre Fritz repaired to the painter’s 
studio ; whence he purposed, after the business should be arranged, 
walking home with Hughes to have tea, as he had announced to 
Larcher yesterday. 

But Fritz had another purpose in his mind, also. 

His talk with Olga at Norwood, and the incidents of last evening, 
had brought vividly before him the fact that his position with re- 
spect to Miss Copley was a false one, and that it behooved him to 
make it true and clear without delay. If there now appeared to be 
some vague danger that certain philosophical theories he had held 
about himself might not eventually stand the test of practice as sat- 
isfactorily as he had conceived beforehand, Fritz knew himself to be 
a man of honor. Here, at least, was firm ground. Let his position 
towards Miss Copley be distinctly and publicly acknowledged, and 
no doubt a variety of strange, uneasy, conflicting — what should he 
call them ? — fancies, would disappear like mists in the sunshine. 
He would speak with Barbara that very day. 

At the studio, to which he mounted with his usual vigorous, 
swinging step, he did not observe, until he had rung a hasty peal 
at the bell, a piece of paper fastened to the door, on which was 
written “ W. Hughes out. Return at five.” It was now but a 
minute or so past four. What should he do meanwhile? 

As Fritz stood there irresolute, a door on the same landing was 
opened, and Mrs. Green, appearing at it, inquired civilly if she 
could take any note or message for Mr. Hughes. 

“You are very good,” said Fritz, with a bow. “But — no, I 
think not. I must speak with Mr. Hughes myself. I suppose I 
had better go away, and come back again. Perhaps — if it is not 
trespassing on your kindness— you would not object to say that 


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305 


Frederick Hofmann lias been here, and will return ? In case, I 
mean, that Mr. Hughes should come back first.” 

Mrs. Green knew his name very well ; and knew his relationship 
to Hopkins’s rich customer, Mrs. Kettering. He might be a pos- 
sible purchaser of pictures himself ! With the desire to do her 
neighbor a good turn, she invited Mr. Hofmann to walk in, and 
wait in her studio. “It isn’t a pleasant day for strolling about,” 
she said. “ And you won’t inconvenience me in the least, I assure 
you. I am an old neighbor — and I hope I may say an old friend 
— of Mr. Hughes. If you will come in, you are heartily welcome.” 

It was said with so much cordiality that Fritz accepted her 
offer. All the more readily because he had heard Miss Hughes 
and Barbara speak in high terms of the friendliness of the little 
flower-painter. And in a few minutes they were chatting together 
like old acquaintances. 

Presently Mrs. Green insisted on Mr. Hofmann’s sharing her 
afternoon tea; and over those cheerful cups she became more com- 
municative than ever. 

“ People do say, Mr. Hofmann, that young Copley won’t live to 
come into the money. But who can tell ? And if he only lives 
a day after his twenty-first birthday, he has the power to will 
away the property just as he likes. And you’d hardly believe 
what shoals of — well, I call ’em sharks — will swim after such a 
chance as that 1” 

It was quite a new view to Fritz to consider any member of the 
Hughes family as the object of greedy pursuit; and he said so. 

“ Oh dear, yes,” said Mrs. Green, nodding her head shrewdly ; 
“ I happen to be in the way of hearing a good deal about them, 
one way and another. Among other things” — and here Mrs. 
Green chuckled a little to herself — “ I am honored, and both- 
ered, with the confidences of an adorer of Miss Copley’s. Oh, 
you needn’t think I am a traitor. The young man makes no 
secret of it. Indeed, I believe he likes nothing better than to talk 
about it to anybody who will listen.” 

Fritz looked gravely attentive. The recollection of Barbara’s 
face when he saw her for the first time after his proposal came 
vividly into his mind. Might he, possibly, be coming on a clue as 
to what had perplexed him then and many times since ? 

“And has this candid gentleman taken Miss Copley into his con- 
20 


306 


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fidence as well as the rest of the world?” he said, quietly sipping 
his tea. 

“ I can’t say positively, but I don’t believe he has spoken to 
her ; and if he takes my advice, he won’t.” 

“ Really !” 

“ No. Oh, bless you, Mr. Hofmann, the thing’s ridiculous ! As 
I spoke just now about sharks, it’s only fair to say that the young 
man is not a shark — anyway, not as far as Miss Copley is con- 
cerned. I believe he is disinterested enough there. But, dear 
me, she is miles above him.” 

“ Perhaps that might be said of most men,” observed Fritz, 
thoughtfully stroking his moustache. 

“ Well, so it might — in a way ! You are quite right, Mr. Hof- 
mann ; and it really is delightful to find how well you appreciate 
Miss Copley. I’m an immense admirer of hers, I assure you. But 
in this case — Oh, well, if you saw the party for two seconds, 
you would understand that he hasn’t the ghost of a chance. Not 
the ghost ! The fact is — he’s too vulgar.” 

Fritz had been dimly conscious of some magnanimous impulses. 
What if there should be a secret story of true love crossed by duty 
and hard circumstances? And what if it should be in his, Fritz 
Hofmann’s, power to make its course run smooth by the sacrifice 
of his own feelings and projects ? 

But Mrs. Green’s last words brought him up short. “ Vulgar !” 
No, if Mrs. Green were right there, the young man, whoever he 
was, certainly had not the ghost of a chance. 

Then Mrs. Collins, the charwoman, announced that Mr. Hughes 
had come back, and Fritz, with many thanks for the flower-paint- 
er’s hospitality, went away to his friend’s studio. 


CHAPTER XL. 

There was some one in the studio with Mr. Hughes when Fritz 
entered it — a lady, who must have arrived at the same time with 
the former — a lady of a tall figure, who towered above the painter 
by nearly a head, not to mention the crown of a high hat — a lady 


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307 


who was in the act of shaking hands with Mr. Hughes, and say- 
ing, in a loud, almost threatening voice, “ How do you do? You 
never came to see me ; so I have come to see you. But my belief 
is that your nephew never gave you a word of my message, for I 
will not credit a fickleness of disposition, much less a want of 
politeness, in one whose manners were the theme of universal 
comment. I beg your pardon !” 

This last ejaculation was addressed to Fritz Hofmann, who had 
been standing close behind her, unable to pass, and unable, also, to 
make her aware of his presence. She had become aware of it now 
by backing against him with some force in the emphasis of her 
speech. 

“ Oh, Hofmann, is it you?” said Mr. Hughes, looking up at him 
with his eyebrows in a perplexed knot, and the humorous smile 
faintly discernible at the corners of his mouth. There was, too, 
an indefinable, but quite unmistakable, expression in his face of 
feeling Hofmann’s presence to be a protection to him, and at the 
same time a consciousness of the absurdity of any such feeling — 
all subtly mingled together, and changing and melting into one 
another as he stretched out his arm beyond Miss Jenks, who still 
blocked the gangway, and shook hands with the young man. 

“ I beg your pardon !” said Miss Jenks again, facing round, as if 
at some military word of command, to look at Fritz. “I was not 
aware of any one so close behind me, and almost staggered.” 

Fritz had quite staggered. But he was stalwart enough to resist 
the shock ; and he received Miss Jenks’s gracious apology with a 
low bow, and begged her not to mention it. 

And then Hughes ushered them both into the room. To Miss 
Jenks was assigned the seat of honor — an old wooden arm-chair, 
with a cushion covered with faded red chintz — while William 
perched himself on a board supported on two trestles, and Fritz 
remained standing, with his elbow on the mantelshelf. 

“And so this,” said Miss Jenks, looking round her with a sol- 
emn stare, “ is an artist’s stewdyo ? I never was in one before, 
except when I went to be photographed — a most elegant place, 
with a red velvet sofa, like the outside of the hotel omnibus at 
Vevey. I remember my woollen gown stuck to it.” 

“Ah !” said Hughes, shaking his head, “ we can’t rival the pho- 
tographers.” 


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“Oli, but you don’t take sitters, you see! That makes a dif- 
ference.” 

“ Well — perhaps it does.” 

“To be sure it does,” said Miss Jenks, encouragingly. “And, 
indeed, I must say, that what with the heat and the glare, and the 
chemical smell, I felt quite — ” Miss Jenks paused here, as though 
fastidiously selecting her epithet, and then said, very loudly and 
emphatically, “ Sick !” 

“ Well — well,” said Hughes, gravely, after a moment’s silence, 
“ I hope that in some respects we may have the pull of the pho- 
tographers, after all !” 

Fritz’s blue eyes were fixed on Miss Jenks with such undisguised 
curiosity that he started and colored a little when she unexpect- 
edly turned her head and caught him. But she merely said, affa- 
bly, “I hope I didn’t hurt you, although not having the pleasure 
of your name.” 

William Hughes presented him. “ Mr. Frederick Hofmann, 
Miss Jenks.” 

“ Oh, indeed !” said Miss Jenks. “ I have heard of you from a 
mutual friend.” 

Fritz bowed. 

“ And, what's more, I had the pleasure of knowing your cousin, 
Miss Ida Kettering, on the Continent.” 

Fritz, recalling Sallie Stringer’s description of the party at Mon- 
plaisir, looked anywhere rather than at William Hughes. 

“And being from the Continent yourself,” pursued Miss Jenks, 
“ I must tell you that I was very much pleased with it — very much 
indeed.” 

Fritz politely expressed his gratification on behalf of Europe 
generally, and then — by way of a hint to her that the painter’s 
time was of value — expressed a hope that he was not interrupting 
her business with Mr. Hughes. 

“ I did not come on business,” returned Miss Jenks. 

“ Oh !” 

“ No ; although any business calculated to assist Mr. Hughes in 
his profession must ever be an unfeigned object with me , my pres- 
ent visit was dictated by far different sentiments.” 

“ Oh !” 

“Some unpleasant remarks were - made in the boarding-house 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


309 


where I at present reside — by a person who I will not derogate by 
describing beyond the simple mention that her name is Towzer — 
about my visiting a gentleman’s stewdyo. But the unpleasantry 
at once fell flat when I stated that the gentleman was strictly 
landscape.” 

Fritz, looking very like his cousin Ida, gazed at Miss Jenks in 
frank bewilderment ; and even William’s quickness was at fault. 

“ Strictly landscape,” repeated Miss Jenks, with a virtuous air. 
“ I should object to bring myself in contact with anything ana- 
tomical ; nor are those who know me best likely to suppose other- 
_ • 

wise. 

There was a pause, during which Miss Jenks manifested the 
solid self-satisfaction arising from a conscience at ease; and Will- 
iam Hughes’s countenance was a perfect study of conflicting ex- 
pressions, among which intense enjoyment of Miss Jenks’s con- 
versation, and an uneasy desire to get rid of her, predominated. 

“ Do you know that I have been under this roof more than 
three quarters of an hour?” said Fritz, breaking the silence. Then 
he narrated Mrs. Green’s hospitable behavior, and Hughes declared 
heartily that Mrs. Green was one of the best souls he knew. 

“ And she insisted on giving me some tea,” added Fritz. 

“Just like her! I’m glad you accepted. It would delight 
her.” 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Miss Jenks, suddenly straightening herself 
rigidly in her chair, and assuming her inexorable drill-sergeant 
manner, “Do you think Mrs. Green would give me some tea?” 

The two men looked at each other, and neither spoke. 

“ Because,” continued Miss Jenks, vigorously, “ I feel rather 
faint at this hour, being accustomed to it; and I am acquainted 
with a friend of Mrs. Green’s by the name of Mr. Nathaniel Coney, 
besides being a friend of Mr. Hughes’s, and I shouldn’t in the 
least mind asking her.” 

“ I’ve no doubt she would,” said Fritz, all at once. “ I’ll go 
and speak to her.” 

He darted out of the studio so briskly that Hughes had some 
difficulty in catching him on the landing, where — having carefully 
closed his own door behind him, he made some whispered remon- 
strances in Fritz’s ear. 

“ No, no ; not at all,” answered Fritz, obstinately. “ Not a 


310 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


shame at all. If I don’t mistake, Mrs. Green is perfectly well able 
to take care of herself ; and I’m quite sure she would be glad to 
release you from that vampire of a woman, who must be got rid 
of somehow ! Mrs. Green is so sharp and shrewd that she’ll man- 
age it right.” 

And thereupon Fritz rang loudly at Mrs. Green’s bell, while 
Hushes returned to his own studio. 

“ I must now mention,” said Miss Jenks, abruptly, as soon as 
he reappeared alone, “ that I wish to know the address of your 
aunt, Miss Hughes, and of Miss Copley, your niece, as I intend to 
leave a card on each of them.” 

William drew back, and looked at her with a new expression. 
It would not do at all to give Miss Jenks the power of bestowing 
her society on Aunt Judith and Barbara just now, when there was 
so much anxiety and care on their shoulders about Claude. In- 
deed, William doubted whether Aunt Judith would have appre- 
ciated Miss Jenks under any circumstances. And it was as char- 
acteristic of him to be stanch in defending the dear women at 
home as it was to be soft in defending himself. He therefore 
answered coldly that Miss Jenks was very obliging, but that his 
aunt, Miss Hughes, was away from home, and that, moreover, she 
did not desire to receive any visits at present. 

It is not for a moment to be supposed that Miss Jenks would 
have accepted this reply as final. And, indeed, she had opened 
her mouth to say so, when Fritz came back, took Miss Jenks on 
his arm, conducted her at a very quick march across the landing, 
and in at Mrs. Green’s door, which, after a rapid word of intro- 
duction between the two ladies, he shut again smartly, leaving 
M iss Jenks inside it. 

“ There !” said he, passing his hand triumphantly through his 
hair. “Yon Moltke couldn’t have managed it better!” 

“ It is rather a case of Napoleon’s big battalions,” said Hughes. 
“ If you had been an inch shorter, or a stone lighter, I don’t be- 
lieve you could have done it !” 

Fritz laughed. “ She is certainly a tremendous female,” he said. 
But, having got rid of her, Fritz insisted that his friend should 
come away without taking any further leave of Miss Jenks, who 
was quite safe in Mrs. Green’s hands for the next ten minutes at 
least. Hughes would not have consented to this measure but for 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


311 


the thought of Aunt Judith and Barbara. They must be pro- 
tected at all costs. 

“But isn't she wonderful? Isn't she an exquisite creature?” 
said Hughes to Fritz, with extraordinary earnestness, as they 
walked away together. 

If Miss Jenks could but have heard him ! 

Meanwhile, that practical-minded woman was improving the 
occasion — firstly, by drinking Mrs. Green’s tea, and eating Mrs. 
Green’s toast; and, secondly, by getting all the information out 
of her that she could. 

Miss Jenks, as we know, had her own motives for visiting Mr. 
Hughes. But she had also come as, in some sort, the agent of 
Mrs. Armour. Juliet had, with indescribable bitterness of spirit, 
been unable finally to resist the conclusion that Dalton’s will was 
unassailable. But then a sinister and lurid kind of hope had begun 
to illumine the darkness of that prospect. Claude was very ill. 
Claude might die before he came into his inheritance. In that 
case Juliet and her sister were to divide the eighth of the whole. 

There was great confusion and uncertainty as to what the total 
amount of the property might be. It consisted almost entirely 
of shares in many various investments, and it was not possible to 
estimate their value accurately, pending the arrival of further de- 
tails from Mr. Reuben Wilford, Dalton’s agent in New York. But 
the lowest calculation Juliet had heard (it was Coney’s, and Coney 
had some knowledge on the subject) put the amount of Dalton’s 
fortune at a quarter of a million sterling. 

Now Juliet Armour would, six months ago, have looked upon 
even the sixteenth part of that sum as riches. But her view had 
changed. Others would take more than her share four or five 
times told. There was the sting! And, besides, Claude might 
be weakly and delicate, but he would in all probability survive his 
next birthday : the time was very short now. And if he did so, 
he would be absolute master of that wealth, to do what he would 
with. 

And after much meditation — which, however, it did not take 
very long to accomplish, thought being almost as independent of 
time as of space — Mrs. Armour decided in her own mind that she 
had committed an error in quarrelling with Claude, and that she 
must now do her best to retrieve it. It might not be easy, and 


312 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


would certainly be disagreeable ; but she would try it. She would 
fight for her rights. She had been treated with infamous injustice, 
and need not show any consideration to her enemies. As to 
Claude, she could easily regain her influence over him, if once 
she had access to him again. The foolish boy had worshipped 
the very ground she walked on ! Mrs. Armour remembered with 
a malicious smile certain complaints and certain impatiently dis- 
paraging words that she had led Claude on to utter against his 
uncle ; and she told herself that she knew whose influence would 
triumph if it ever came to a struggle between herself and Mr. 
Hughes. 

But the first point was how to approach Claude. She wished 
to do so warily, and as if by accident. She had heard — for Dal- 
ton’s heir was watched now by suspicious eyes — that young Cop- 
ley had gone from home for a change of air, and was lodging 
close to London. Hopkins could probably have told her his ad- 
dress; or Lady Lambton. But she would rather not Question 
them on the subject. Then, when she discovered that Miss Jenks 
entertained the design of calling to see Mr. Hughes on her own 
account, Mrs. Armour charged her to find out all she could about 
his nephew ; and especially his present whereabouts. 

“You must not mention my name,” she said. “And it would 
be no passport to Mr. Hughes’s good graces. But if you can get 
me young Copley’s address, without any fuss, I’ll give you my 
green bonnet.” 

Miss Jenks no sooner found herself alone with Mrs. Green than 
it occurred to her that this chatty little woman — who was evi- 
dently proud of her intimacy with the Hughes family — might fur- 
nish her with the information she wanted. And Mrs. Green — 
who did happen to know Claude’s address, from having posted a 
letter from William Hughes to his Aunt Judith — wrote it down 
on a card without any hesitation. 

Mr. Hofmann had not had time to say many words to Mrs. 
Green ; but he had briefly conveyed to her that the lady in her 
neighbors studio was a bore, that it would be a service to Mr. 
Hughes to relieve him of her presence, and that he (Fritz Hof- 
mann), feeling assured, even after his brief acquaintance with her, 
of Mrs. Green’s good sense and kind heart, had takei the liberty 
of appealing to her for help. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


313 


The flower-painter was, therefore, unprepared for Miss Jenks’s 
peculiarities, and observed her curiously as a new specimen. But 
on two points Mrs. Green soon made up her mind — namely, that 
Miss Jenks would sponge on her if she could, and that she would 
resolutely decline to be sponged on. Consequently, when Miss 
Jenks, on rising to go away, said, in her most impressive manner, 
“ Mr. Hofmann assured me that, as a friend of dear Mr. Hughes, 
and mutually acquainted with other parties, you would be most 
happy to welcome me, which I have found to be the case,” Mrs. 
Green replied with great distinctness that it was quite a chance 
her having been at home at that hour, and was most unlikely ever 
to occur a^ain. 

But Mrs. Green was as yet unacquainted with the dauntless and 
persistent character of her visitor. 

“ I shall now,” said Miss Jenks, majestically, “ return to Mr. 
Hughes’s stewdyo, thanking you for the refreshment, which was 
most exceptable.” 

“ Don’t mention it. But I think Mr. Hughes is gone,” rejoined 
Mrs. Green, with cheerfulness. 

“Gone!” 

“ I fancy so. It’s about the hour when he usually does go. He 
has a great many engagements, you know, and his time is of value. 
And I am going out myself directly, so I must wish you good af- 
ternoon.” 

Notwithstanding Mrs. Green’s opinion on the subject, Miss Jenks 
marched across the landing and tugged at Mr. Hughes’s bell. But 
a second and a third peal eliciting no reply, she at length reluct- 
antly came to the conclusion that he was really gone. And, re- 
viewing the circumstances with slow and dogged attention, the 
idea dawned on her that Mr. Hofmann, in hustling her away as he 
had done, had been actuated less by attention to her comfort than 
by the desire to get rid of her. 

“ Well, never mind,” said Miss Jenks to herself. “ I was very 
glad of the tea — being an extra, and not included in the board at 
Mrs. Pringle’s — and I can come back some day when he is by him- 
self. And, at any rate, I shall have that green bonnet.” 


314 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

It is very easy to talk with glibness of the straightforward path 
of duty ; and the clear light of duty ; and the plain dictates of 
duty ; and so forth. But, apart from the difficulty of doing one’s 
duty — which is a different matter — it is by no means always easy 
to discern what it is. Life is very complex ; and the relations of 
one human soul to its fellow-souls are very complex ; and there 
come crises in which the path of duty is not straightforward, nor 
its light unclouded, nor its precepts plain. 

Such a crisis had come to Barbara. 

When Hazel went away on that evening of his first visit, she 
soon withdrew to her own room, for she desired to be alone with 
her thoughts. Moreover, her uncle did not seem much disposed 
to talk. He said a few cordial words about Hazel. But there 
was a tinge of melancholy in them. 

“ I suppose Mr. Hazel is to be congratulated now, uncle,” said 
Barbara in a low voice. “ His prospects seem to be so good. 
And he looks much better and stronger than he did at Thorn- 
field.” 

“ Yes, my dear. No doubt. At least I hope so. He has cer- 
tainly recovered his health. He is a capital fellow. I — I hope 
all will be for the best.” 

Barbara raised her eyes and looked at her uncle. “And yet 
you seem to be — ” 

“ To be what, my dear ?” 

“ To be sorry for him, in some way.” 

William turned his head aside to light Barbara’s candle for her, 
as he answered, “ We all have our troubles, my pet. You know 
I told you that Hazel has had many troubles. And — and he is a 
man of deep and strong feelings. Good-night, my dear child. 
God bless you.” 

Yes ; Hazel had had many troubles. How often had she 
thought of his sorrowful story, and of him so far away and so 


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315 


lonely ! Perhaps he was still grieving for that false love who 
had deserted him so coldly and so cruelly. Perhaps he had con- 
fided this to her uncle. 

She wrapped herself in a shawl, and sat down on the side of 
her bed in the fireless room, to think. 

The question on which she strove to concentrate her mind was, 
“ What is my duty ?” And the answer was neither plain nor 
prompt. 

But as she thought, earnestly trying to see the truth, her way 
seemed to grow gradually clearer. That maiden dream which 
she had spoken of to herself as the belief of a child in a fairy 
tale was her own secret. No one suspected it. No one should 
ever know it. No one could be injured by it. Fritz Hofmann 
neither demanded nor expected romantic love from her. fie had 
told her that if she would marry him, she would secure his hap- 
piness. She knew that the thought of that marriage was the one 
bright point to which her uncle looked in the future. She felt 
for Fritz the sincerest esteem, the most faithful friendship, the 
warmest gratitude. 

There might be natures to whom these would not suffice; who, 
loving ardently, could accept nothing less than love in exchange. 
Gilbert Hazel’s perhaps was such a nature. If he were trying to 
win a girl to be his wife — 

But Barbara checked her wandering thoughts abruptly. What 
she had deeply and seriously to consider was Fritz Hofmann’s 
character ; not another’s. And she thought she might believe 
him when he said he could content himself with such regard as 
she was able to bestow. Hazel had spoken of those days at 
Thornfield as though he remembered every minute of them. But, 
of course, he did not think of them so tenderly as she did. They 
were different, and had so many objects of interest and excite- 
ment in their lives. And if he thought — 

But whither were those errant fancies straying again ? Had 
she no sense — no conscience — no pride? 

She started up with a deep blush burning on her face, and then 
she felt that all her limbs were numbed and stiff with cold. As 
she stood for a moment leaning against the bed, she heard her 
uncle’s footsteps — very slow and labored — go up-stairs and into 
the room above hers. 


316 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ Oh,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, “ what a 
poor selfish creature I am to be dreaming here over my own fan- 
cies and regrets — I, who have grown lip with that example before 
me all my life ! He sacrificed everything — youth, health, love, 
ambition, to take up the burden of two helpless lives and carry 
them on his shoulders. Out of pure gratitude and affection and 
compassion he renounced, in the very springtide of his days, the 
aims and hopes of other men ; and I can sit here, under his roof, 
and think it hard to part with the shadow of a dream ! If Gil- 
bert Hazel knew it, he would despise me. But, please Heaven, 
I shall not be so miserably weak and selfish to-morrow. I should 
not like him to despise me,” murmured Barbara, lying down to 
rest, with the salt tears trembling on her eyelashes. 

The next afternoon Hazel was to come back with her uncle ; and 
she courageously prepared herself to meet him. She would be not 
only calm, but cheerful. Had she not good reason to be thankful ? 
She would not incur her own scorn by contemptible repinings. 

But Hazel did not come. William Hughes appeared without 
him, and said something — not in his usual clear and coherent man- 
ner — of Hazel’s being so much occupied in Mr. Wilson’s business, 
and of not being even sure that they should see him again before 
he returned to Staffordshire. 

“ There is nothing the matter ? He — he is not ill ?” stam- 
mered Barbara. 

“ Oh no, my dear. He is very well, only very busy,” answered 
her uncle, in the same absent, confused way. Barbara had turned 
very white, and was trembling. But he was troubled himself, 
and anxious to hide his trouble from her, and he did not look at 
her face. 

And presently Larcher came in bearing Fritz’s flowers in her 
hand, and bringing Fritz’s message. (They little guessed who 
had watched the delivery of them !) And Barbara saw how her 
uncle’s face grew brighter as he listened. 

“ What a good fellow he is !” exclaimed William, heartily. 
“ Fancy his going down to Norwood to bring us this report ! It 
cannot have been very amusing for a young gentleman who has 
so many agreeable ways at his command of killing time.” 

Some persons — Mr. Perikles Rhodonides, for instance — might 
have thought a tete-a-tete stroll with Olga Kettering a sufficiently 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


317 


agreeable way of killing time. But then William Hughes knew 
nothing about that. 

Then he admired the flowers, which were, as usual, all white. 
“ I have not observed any specially artistic qualities in Ilofmann, 
speaking generally,” he said. “But here, I must say, he shows 
a poetic touch. He always sends you flowers that look like you, 
Barbara.” 

“I never heard so grand a compliment in my life!” said Bar- 
bara, arranging her flowers in water, and bending her head down 
over them to hide her face. For she was struggling to keep back 
tears — of gratitude she told herself. And then she made a brave 
effort to smile at her uncle. But when she looked up in his face 
the tears suddenly blinded her, and she threw her arms round his 
neck, and leaned her head against his breast. 

“ Barbara, my pet ! What is it ?” 

“ Because you are so good and dear,” she sobbed. “ And be- 
cause you have had such a hard, hard life !” 

“ No, no ; don’t cry, my dear, don’t cry. I have been very 
happy.” 

The words were said with the utmost sincerity and simplicity, 
and contained the brief and eloquent epitome of his rare nature. 

On the following evening Fritz duly appeared at tea-time in 
company with William, whom he had rescued, as we know, from 
the powerful fascinations of Miss Jenks, and they made their 
little jokes over the tea-table about the eccentricities of that re- 
markable woman. 

“ I should very much like to see her,” exclaimed Barbara. 

“ I am sorry, then, that I have deprived you of a pleasure,” 
replied her uncle. “ She wanted to call on you, but I — I stopped 
her.” 

There was something almost like compunction in his face as 
he said it, for he could not bear to hurt even a hurtful creature. 

But Fritz was less tender-hearted. “ Of course, you stopped 
her !” he said. “ It would never do to have her intruding her- 
self on Aunt Judith and Barbara. We cannot allow that.” 

And Barbara noticed two things in this speech which were new 
to her — first, a tone of authority, as though what concerned her 
were now his business ; and, second, that he called her by her 


318 


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Christian name. He had often addressed Miss Hughes, half play- 
fully, as Aunt Judith ; but he had never yet spoken to, or of, 
herself in her presence except as Miss Copley. 

By and by Fritz declared that Barbara was looking very wan 
and tired, and proposed to carry her and her uncle down to Nor- 
wood as his guests the next day, which was Saturday, and that 
they should remain there over the Sunday. There was accommo- 
dation for them both in the house where Miss Hughes and Claude 
were lodging; and, in fact, it was all settled. Barbara need not 
attempt to make any objection. 

“ I do not purpose making any,” she answered, gently. “ It 
is a delightful scheme, and I think Uncle William will accept it 
as readily as I do.” 

And again she noticed the new air in Fritz of taking possession 
of her. 

Then they spoke of his visit to Norwood yesterday, and he told 
them that Claude seemed to be much better; the change had cer- 
tainly done him good. 

William’s eyes glistened. 

“ We have to thank you for that, Hofmann,” he said. 

“ For that, and for how much else !” added Barbara, in a low 
voice ; and then she timidly put out her hand to him. He took 
it in his own, bowed over it, and kissed it lightly with a grave 
kind of homage, as if she had been a queen. 

Barbara thought he behaved perfectly, as did her uncle. But 
had Aunt Judith been there, it may be doubted whether she would 
have been quite content. 

All the arrangements for the little expedition were made before 
Fritz went away. It was to be a surprise for Aunt Judith. She 
was not nervous, and rather enjoyed such little excitements. 

Fritz had declared that everything was arranged. But this was 
not strictly accurate. To say the truth, the scheme had only 
occurred to him since entering the Hugheses’ house. He had gone 
there with the intention of praying Barbara to let him announce 
openly to his family that he was her accepted suitor. He had 
prepared in his own mind several cogent arguments to induce her 
to put an end to the present state of indecision and concealment. 
But when he was there he found it difficult to get an opportu- 
nity of uttering them. Then he was struck by Barbara’s looks. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


319 


She was not well, or was working too hard. And then the idea 
of getting her down to Norwood flashed upon him. 

Yes, that was a famous plan. And once there, he would speak 
the irrevocable words that were to fix his fate. 

Irrevocable ! Why, was not every word he had ever said to 
Barbara as irrevocable as the faith and honor of a gentleman 
could make it ? Certainly, his proposal was irrevocable — unless 
by Barbara’s own wish. And then he fell to wondering who the 
young man could be whom Mrs. Green considered to have not 
the ghost of a chance. 

Fritz had to precede his guests to Norwood early the next morn- 
ing, in order to make these arrangements for them which they 
supposed to be already made. But he was on the platform of 
the station when they arrived, and had a carriage in readiness to 
convey them to the lodgings. He left them at the door of the 
house, to announce themselves, saying that if they would excuse 
him, he would see that his dressing-bag had been duly carried 
to the neighboring hotel, where he had taken a bed for himself, 
and would join them again presently. 

Aunt Judith was duly surprised and delighted when Barbara 
and her uncle walked into the sitting-room together. Although 
it may be suspected that the landlady had not entirely re- 
frained from giving a hint as to the expected visitors. “But 
where is Claude ?” asked Barbara and her uncle, almost simul- 
taneously. 

Claude, it appeared, had gone out to the Crystal Palace, but 
would soon return. 

Then when Barbara had gone away to her room to take off her 
hat, Aunt Judith drew nearer to her nephew, and said, with a lit- 
tle hesitation, “ There is some one with Claude, who has promised 
not to let him stay out too long in the evening air. Some one 
whom you know — Mrs. Armour.” 

William uttered an exclamation of astonishment; and it was 
clearly astonishment of a by no means pleasant nature. 

Then Aunt Judith explained that Mrs. Armour had called that 
forenoon ; and had asked to see Miss Hughes ; and had said that, 
being in that neighborhood, she had ventured to come and in- 
quire for Mr. Copley. 

William listened with a cloudy face. 


320 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ I don’t like the woman,” he said ; “ and it is not possible that 
she should like our family very much.” 

This allusion — distant though it were — to Claude’s inheritance, 
emboldened Aunt Judith to speak further. Mrs. Armour, it ap- 
peared, had confessed to feeling angry and disappointed at first; 
but she saw now that, whoever had been to blame, no blame 
could properly belong to Claude, and she wished to show that she 
bore no malice. 

“ You’re not angry with me for telling you, my dear?” said the 
old woman, timidly laying her hand on William’s. 

“ Angry with you, my dear old aunty ! I shouldn’t know how 
to set about being angry with you if I wished it!” 

But although he took her hand and held it fondly between his 
own, his brows were still knitted, and he looked thoughtful and 
ill at ease. 

“ Claude seemed so pleased to see her ! It quite brightened 
him up, and he had been moping a little before. The doctor 
thinks it very important that he should be kept cheerful.” 

“ Could we devise no way of keeping him cheerful except the 
society of that flirting, foolish woman ?” 

“ Well, my dear, she really spoke very sensibly — to me, when 
we were by ourselves, you know — saying that she knew he had 
had a boyish kind of romantic adoration for her.” 

“ I wonder whether I have a romantic adoration for her with- 
out knowing it, like the rest of my sex,” muttered William, re- 
membering the fair Juliet’s references to Hazel. 

“ She said that with a woman of her age all that was, of 
course, mere nonsense ; but that it would do him no harm, and 
might help her to have a good influence over him, and that she 
had had a great interest in him, and liking for him, ever since the 
days of the Pension at Vevey, where, for a long time, he had been 
her only friend.” 

All this was thoroughly distasteful to William from beginning 
to end. He could not, as he had said, be angry with Aunt Judith 
— poor, dear, good soul ! — but he wondered in his heart how she, 
with her old-fashioned, dainty notions on many points, and with 
the native integrity of her character, could tolerate such a woman 
as Juliet Armour. 

He did not guess that Judith yearned over her boy as a mother 





THAT WILD WHEEL. 


321 


yearns over a dying child. What wish of his can the mother re- 
fuse — to him who is so soon to leave the light of the sun, and 
for whom the summer will shine and the flowers blossom never- 
more ? 

Judith did not say this to herself. She did not confess her 
fears, but they haunted her; and she had not the heart to deny 
Claude any fancy that she could gratify. 

Then Fritz returned, and Barbara re-entered the room, and they 
had both to be prepared for the presence of Mrs. Armour. 

Fritz frankly made a discontented grimace. 

“ The fact is,” he said, half laughingly, “ I am not very fond of 
Mrs. Armour — ” 

“ Ah,” interrupted Hughes, shaking his head with a grave 
smile, “ you’re not aware of it !” 

“Aware of what?” 

“ That you cherish a romantic adoration for Mrs. Armour.” 

“Well, no. I certainly am not aware of that.” 

“ Few of us are aware of it, but we do — every mother’s son of 
us ! I have never heard her mention an exception.” 

Fritz looked a little puzzled, but he was not sufficiently inter- 
ested in Mrs. Armour to pursue the subject. 

And when Aunt Judith saw him bend down and speak softly to 
Barbara, and saw Barbara look up at him with her gentle smile, a 
flush of pleasure came into the wrinkled, careworn face ; and, 
turning to her nephew, she began to chat cheerfully, with the dis- 
creet intention of leaving the young people to themselves. 

But there was nothing very lover-like or tender being said. 
Fritz asked Barbara, in a quiet tone, if she would object to walk 
out with him for half an hour in the forenoon to-morrow, suppos- 
ing the weather should be fair; and Barbara answered, in the 
same quiet tone, that she would do so very willingly ; and they 
were both rather grave and preoccupied after that, for both felt 
that an important decision was at hand. 

And in a few minutes, with a sound of rustling skirts, and 
affectedly vivacious talk and laughter, Mrs. Armour, followed by 
Claude, came up the stairs and into the room. 

21 


322 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

At the first sight of her brother, Barbara thought him looking 
surprisingly better and stronger than when he had left London. 
But, after a few minutes, that impression wore away, and she was 
assailed by fears and doubts on his behalf. 

Claude’s spirits were certainly high ; almost too high — for there 
was something feverish in his excitement. He greeted his sister 
in his usual careless, half-patronizing way, and shook hands with 
his uncle and with Hofmann. 

And then Barbara had to be presented to Mrs. Armour. That 
lady looked at her with hard, glittering eyes, that seemed to radi- 
ate cold, as though they had been bits of blue ice. But she 
smiled a great deal, and was very gracious. 

“ Mr. Hofmann I have seen this morning already,” she said. 
“ We came down in the same train from Victoria.” 

“ I had not the pleasure of recognizing you,” said Fritz, hand- 
ing a chair for her. 

“Oh no; you did not see me. I perceived that. Your mind 
was, doubtless, full of much more interesting subjects.” 

“That, of course, is impossible,” answered Fritz, with an ex- 
aggeration of manner which Barbara felt to be almost imperti- 
nent. But Barbara had no experience of women of Mrs. Ar- 
mour’s type. Mrs. Armour accepted the words ; not, of course, 
literally, but as conveying an agreeable kind of homage that was 
her due. And she laughed affectedly. But as she turned away 
her head, in doing so, she caught sight of Claude’s lowering face; 
and said, rather quickly, “ And how is the pretty cousin, Mr. Hof- 
mann ?’ 

Fritz was not what is generally understood by the word “ thick- 
skinned ;” but he, nevertheless, had a certain stoutness of integu- 
ment that was proof against any sudden dart Mrs. Armour had it 
in her power to throw ; and he answered, with perfect coolness, 
“You must not lay on me the responsibility of deciding which of 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


323 


my cousins you mean by that kind description, Mrs. Armour. I 
think them both pretty. But then I may be partial.” 

“I mean the young lady with whom I have always seen you 
talking whenever I have been at your uncle’s house — Miss Ket- 
tering.” 

“ My cousin Olga is Miss Kettering. Thank you ; I believe 
Olga is very well. She appeared to be so on Thursday ; didn’t 
she, Miss Hughes?” 

“Very well indeed,” replied Aunt Judith. 

“ I believe I did not mention to you last evening that my 
cousin Olga accompanied me to Norwood the other day,” said 
Fritz, addressing Barbara. “ She came as representing the ladies 
of the family. Miss Stringer was to have come too ; but at the 
last moment she was prevented. I explained it all to Miss 
Hughes.” 

All this surprised Juliet Armour a good deal, and secretly an- 
gered her. The ladies of the Kettering family had limited their 
attentions to her to the formal leaving of cards. And then young 
Hofmann appeared to be on quite a familiar footing among these 
Hugheses. But presently Juliet thought she understood the po- 
sition very well. It would have been long before such attentions 
were showered on the family of the little governess had not the 
brother of the little governess inherited vast wealth. Juliet’s lip 
curled with contempt. Her own case was very different. She 
had been robbed — infamously deprived of her rights ; and it be- 
hooved her to fight for them, if not by fair means, then with any 
weapon at her command. But for these Ketterings — rich them- 
selves, and yet fawning on money — her scorn was boundless. 

Mrs. Armour was to return to London at six o’clock. But it 
still wanted more than an hour of that time, and the hour threat- 
ened to hang very heavily. Her presence was a bar to much of 
the familiar conversation they might otherwise have indulged in 
among themselves; and Claude showed an ill-bred tendency to 
talk with her apart, ignoring the others. She w'as too cunning to 
let him do this at present. But when she answered his half- 
whispered sentences aloud, he resented it, and grew sullen. 
Moreover, he had never cordially liked Hofmann, and accepted 
his benefits with a grudging protest and the promise to himself 
that he would repay them twice over and be quit of him — some 


324 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


day. Then William Hughes was uneasy, Barbara silent and pre- 
occupied, and Fritz chafing under the intrusion of this stranger, 
his opinion of whom was, no doubt, derived chiefly from his 
cousin Olga and Sally Stringer. Altogether, that hour which had 
to be got through loomed very lead-colored. 

But when Aunt Judith ordered some tea to be brought in, to 
refresh Mrs. Armour before her journey, it was felt to be a wel- 
come diversion, and then all became a little more cheerful as they 
sat with their teacups in their hands. 

“ Do you know,” said Mrs. Armour, somewhat recovering her 
vivacity, “ that I have seen a friend of yours ? When was it ? 
Oh, yesterday.” 

“ Of mine ?” said Hughes, to whom she had particularly ad- 
dressed herself. 

“Yes. Don’t you remember our talking of him at Vevey, and 
my telling you he had left the army ? Gilbert Hazel.” 

Aunt Judith turned round quickly. “Mr. Hazel! Is he in 
England again ?” she said. 

“ He is in England, and he is in London, and, moreover, he is 
in the very same house where I — where I have a little pied-a- 
terre that I use when I want to be near my lawyer or to do any 
business. My sister lives at the end of the world.” 

“ Yes, Aunt Judith. Hazel came to see us the other evening. 
I was going to tell you all about his visit. You have seen him, 
then, Mrs. Armour? How was he?” said William, earnestly. 

Barbara listened with wide, plaintive eyes and parted lips for 
the answer. Her face showed as little consciousness of the ob- 
servation of others as a child’s. She was absorbed in awaiting 
the answer to that question. But Aunt Judith furtively watched 
Barbara. 

“ Oh, I think he is well enough,” answered Mrs. Armour. 
“ Why shouldn’t he be ? Was he not well when he called to see 
you ?” 

“ Yes — oh yes ; he was not ill. But he appeared to be — wor- 
ried — about business.” 

William was vexed with himself for having shown so mucli 
solicitude about Hazel before that woman. 

“ Really ! Well, I should say that it is his employer who is 
most likely to be worried,” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


325 


“ Why ?” demanded Fritz Hofmann, abruptly. 

“ Oil — well, because he is a kind of grown-up enfant terrible. 
If Mr. Wilson — that is the name, I believe — sells cloth, Gilbert 
Ilazel will tell the customers how much shoddy is put into it. 
And if he sells iron, Gilbert Hazel will warn them of every bar 
that has a flaw.” 

“ I think I should like to buy my cloth and iron of him,” said 
Fritz. 

“Oh, well — of course, in that sense — ! But I was merely 
giving an illustration of his character. He is quixotic: I think 
that expresses him best.” 

“ He is a very noble-hearted fellow !” burst out Hughes, look- 
ing at Mrs. Armour, with a fire in his dark eyes that she had 
never seen there. Then he turned to Fritz, and told him some- 
thing of Hazel’s story — not all of it ; there were points as to 
which he did not feel himself at liberty to speak. But he told 
how manfully Hazel had endured the ruin brought on him by his 
father’s rashness ; and how no hint of complaint against that 
father ever passed his lips. “ And then the simplicity with which 
he bears his poverty — neither bragging of it nor hiding it, but 
accepting it quietly like the thorough-bred gentleman that he is ! 
There’s no man alive whom I honor more than Hazel !” said 
Hughes, with generous warmth. 

Fritz listened attentively. “ Why did he leave the army, after 
all ?” he asked, when the painter had ceased speaking. 

William paused a moment, and a look of pain crossed his face 
before answering. “ He had the opportunity of entering a house 
of business belonging to a member of his mother’s family. And 
India never agreed with his health.” 

“Oh, my dear Mr. Hughes,” cried Mrs. Armour, who quite un- 
derstood that she had been snubbed and reproved, and resented 
it with a great deal of pent-up wrath, “you must not believe all 
you hear about the much-abused climate of India. If a man is 
sick of the service, or not calculated to shine in it, or to get on in 
it, the climate is a convenient excuse for leaving it. Major Armour 
used to say he had seen so much of that sort of thing. Now I 
must be going, as I mean to walk to the station.” 

Odious as he felt the woman to be, she was there in some sort 
as his Aunt Judith’s guest; and William, in his chivalry, could 


326 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


not allow her to leave the house alone. He was preparing to ac- 
company her; but Fritz sprang up, and declared that that care 
must be his. He would have the honor of escorting Mrs. Ar- 
mour to the station, if she would allow him to do so. 

Mrs. Armour was very willing to allow it, greatly preferring his 
company — although he had never paid her all the attention that 
was her due — to that of Mr. Hughes. And before she went away 
she contrived to whisper a word or two to Claude almost in his 
ear. “I may come and see you again, may I not?” she said 
aloud, holding Aunt Judith’s hand in hers. Then, with a rustling 
of silk, and a waft of cheap perfumery, and a general sense of 
fuss, she took her departure ; and presently her high - pitched 
tones were heard outside, as she and Fritz passed out of the little 
front garden and walked down the road. 

Once alone with Hofmann, Juliet Armour “ let her tongue rage 
like a fire.” 

Mr. Hofmann had been surprised, no doubt, to find her there ? 
But she had resolved not to make any feud about the wretched 
will. Mr. Kettering — whose opinion she valued more than she 
could say — quite agreed with her that it was due to her own dig- 
nity to show no animosity towards the inheritor of her uncle’s 
money. Indeed, towards the poor young fellow himself she felt 
none. He looked wretchedly ill ; did not Mr. Hofmann think 
so ? The sister was rather pretty, but inanimate ; and perhaps a 
little — just a little — affected. And the old aunt, how comically 
quaint ! Her dignity was very amusing. But really, when one 
remembered the circumstances under which her Uncle Dalton had 
come to have any connection with that family, there was some- 
thing extraordinarily — she would not say brazen, but insensible, 
amazingly insensible, in the old lady’s self-sufficient manner. Mr. 
Hofmann was, of course, aware that Miss Hughes kept a little 
dame -school near the Harrow Road? It would, indeed, be a 
marvellous change for them all (for, of course, the whole family 
would benefit by it) if the young man lived to come into all that 
wealth. She had heard of the disinterested kindness shown to 
the Hugheses by Miss Stringer and Miss Kettering. So very 
sweet of them ! Mr. Hughes was quite an original. Oh yes ; 
very clever as a painter, no doubt. At least, so she had been 
told. But, probably, a little idle and careless — the sort of person 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


327 


who lived from hand to mouth ; and he had a decided tendency 
to — well, to romance in his talk. Perhaps as an artist he thought 
himself above the humdrum rules of the work-a-day world. But 
now, really, in confidence, all his rodomontade about Gilbert 
Hazel was sheer nonsense. She knew a great deal more about 
Gilbert Hazel than Mr. Hughes could possibly know ; and the 
fact w'as that the whole story of his father’s speculations had been 
thoroughly discreditable; and the young man himself had never 
done very well in the army. Yes ; she had a second-class return 
ticket. She was not ashamed of being poor. Indeed, it was, 
perhaps, a mark of respectability, seeing the channels by which 
money was acquired in some cases ! So many thanks. She 
would be charmed to see Mr. Hofmann if he ever found himself 
near her little pied-a-terre. She could scarcely ask him to call at 
her sister’s, who lived at the end of the world. Good-night. 

Fritz felt that it was like opening a window, and letting the 
fresh air into a close room, to get back to Barbara after this dose 
of Mrs. Armour’s conversation. Claude declared himself tired 
after Mrs. Armour’s departure, and went to his own room, where 
he dined alone, and afterwards sat in an easy-chair by a blazing 
fire, reading one of M. Zola’s novels and smoking cigarettes in 
the teeth of the doctor’s prohibition. 

The others, thus left to themselves, dined together, and then 
chatted over their coffee by the soft light of a shaded lamp in the 
neat little drawing-room. It seemed to Fritz as though life in 
general were shining through a shaded lamp. There was certainly 
no discord among the little party — nothing that jarred. But 
there was the suggestion of a plaintive minor — of a sadness some- 
where that would not be suppressed and could not be defined. 

“ You do not forget your promise to walk with me to-morrow?” 
said Fritz to Barbara as he took his leave. And she answered 
gravely that she had not forgotten it. 

lie resolved the next morning to have a good tramp by himself 
before the hour of his engagement to walk with Miss Copley. 
He wanted to think over the arguments he meant to put before 
her — not, of course, to strengthen his own resolution — that was 
taken ; but to silence some mysterious spirit of contradiction — a 
kind of devil’s advocate within himself, that kept making its 
voice heard with intolerable importunity. So he sallied forth be- 


328 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


times, and, the weather being dry, although not very bright, he 
walked hard for two hours. 

At the end of that time, having made a long circuit and returned 
to Norwood, he found himself on the slope of the hill he had 
rushed up so fast with Olga, and with his mind full of all that 
Olga had said, and done, and looked. She had been very 
naughty and perverse. But what a dear, delightful face it was 
when she looked up with that mutinous sparkle in her eye, and a 
smile curving her fresh red mouth ! She could not possibly be 
in earnest as to what she had said about Rhodonides. He was 
such an ass ! And yet, girls were persuaded every day into mak- 
ing such marriages. Almost every one whom Olga knew — be- 
ginning with her own father and mother — would consider Olga 
to have achieved high good - fortune in marrying Rhodonides. 
The conventionality and worldliness of it all was really hideous! 
Fritz, as he thought of it, gnawed his fair moustache and clenched 
his firsts. 

Then he went down the hill again, and, in a few more minutes, 
he was walking along the road in front of Miss Hughes’s lodg- 
ings, with Barbara by his side. 

At first they went on almost in silence, broken only by Fritz’s 
remark as to the fineness of the weather for the time of year ; and 
Barbara’s assurances that the lodgings were very comfortable, and 
that Aunt Judith was more than content with them. Then, all at 
once, Fritz said, turning his head so as to look full at his com- 
panion, “ Barbara, I suppose you know what it is I want to say 
to you ?” 

She met his eyes for a moment, and answered, with modest 
firmness, “ I think it is for you to say it, whatever it may be.” 

“ Of course it is for me to say it ; and for you — if you will — 
to listen. I think I have done wrong, and put you in a false po- 
sition. When you told me you would leave me free, I ought to 
have said, ‘ Give me my answer, Barbara, and let us stand clear 
towards each other and towards every one else.’ Free ! A man 
who has said what I said to you can’t be free, and ought not to 
be free — unless he is definitively rejected ; and you did not de- 
finitively reject me, did you, Barbara ?” 

She looked at him with a changing color, and her lips began 
to quiver. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


329 


“ Forgive me if I acted mistakenly,” she said. “ I knew the 
generosity of your offer, and I wished — I thought — ” 

“ I am not blaming you, dear ! Good heavens ! you cannot 
suppose I meant to blame you ? No ; it was all my fault.” 

“ But I want you to understand — ■” 

“ I think I do understand. I understand your delicacy of feel- 
ing — your magnanimity. To speak plainly, you knew that you 
had no money, and that I had some.” 

“ Money, and — and other things.” 

“ I have no other thing that even the Empress of the Philis- 
tines, Madam Grundy herself, could pretend to put in the balance. 
My father was a trader ; so was my grandfather. There can be 
no remote fiction of family dignity set up for me. No ; the 
whole matter is this : that you have no money, and that I have 
some.” 

“ No ; that is not the whole matter — at least, not to me.” 

“You, perhaps, remember something of that letter I wrote to 
you ?” 

“ I remember it all — every word.” 

“ Well, I don’t know that I could plead for myself any better 
than I pleaded in my letter. If you can make up your mind to 
accept me as your husband, I will do my best to make you hap- 
py. I will devote my life to you.” 

“ I know it. I am sure of it.” 

“Then, Barbara, will you be my wife?” He stopped as he 
said it. 

She raised her face, and looked at him with a faint little smile ; 
and there was a wonderful radiance in her eyes as, putting out 
her two little hands to take both of his, she answered, “ No.” 

“ Barbara !” He dropped her hands and stepped back a pace, 
looking at her. 

“ No,” she repeated. “ I will confess to you that when I con- 
sented to come down here, I thought it possible that I might — 
might give you a different answer.” 

“ You may return to that good thought,” he said, quickly. 

“ Never ! And it was not a good thought. It was a selfish 
thought.” 

“ I don’t believe that, Barbara,” he said, looking down on her 
protectingly. (They were now walking on again, side by side.) 


330 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


She shook her head. “ I knew that if I married you, it would 
be in my power to brighten their lives at home. And I thought 
— I am not all selfish — that perhaps I might be able to brighten 
yours.” 

“ So you could ! So you can !” he exclaimed. 

Again she shook her head. “ As I lay awake last night, it all 
grew so clear to me that I wondered I could have hesitated. I 
saw that all the arguments I had been using to myself were false. 
I saw that in this case my first — my sole — duty was to you. No, 
please, let me speak ! I have said that my uncle is strongly at- 
tached to you. He esteems you very highly. Suppose I had 
gone to him and said, ‘Uncle William, I know that Mr. Hofmann 
is worthy of the best and warmest and truest love a woman’s heart 
can give. Nevertheless I, who cannot give him such a love, will 
marry him because he is kind and generous, and it will make 
your old age easier to know that I am so well provided for 
how do you think he would have received that? I believe it 
would almost have broken his heart.” 

“ But you don’t think that you may be breaking my heart, 
Barbara ?” 

She wiped away the tears that had gathered in her eyes, and 
smiled on him — this time so brightly that he gazed, entranced 
with her beauty. 

“ No, dear friend — dearest and best of friends — it will not 
break your heart.” 

An hour ago Fritz would have admitted that it certainly would 
not break his heart to be refused by Barbara. But at this mo- 
ment the devil’s advocate within him, suddenly veering round, 
whispered that it was cruelly hard on a man to be asked to resign 
so perfectly charming a creature, whom he had been allowed for 
weeks to look on as his future wife. 

“ That is more than you can say,” he answered, rather gloomily. 

“ I hope not. I trust not. If I have mistakenly done you any 
wrong, I ask your pardon, heartily and humbly. It would be a 
very keen grief to me to think that you and I should not be 
friends ; that I had incurred your anger.” 

“ Anger ! Oh, of course this is no question of anger.” 

“Then won’t you forgive me and shake hands?” she said, 
stretching out her own. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


331 


He took it, and stood for a moment looking at her. Then he 
glanced round. The suburban road was very quiet and solitary. 

“ Barbara,” said he, “ may I give you a kiss ?” 

The color came into her face, but she put up her fair rose- 
tinted cheek without hesitation. He took off his hat, and, bend- 
ing down, kissed her tenderly. 

“ God bless you, dear !” he said. “ You may be right about 
that breaking of hearts ; but one thing I know — you will always 
be to me the ideal of a sweet, pure woman. There will be a halo 
shining about you in my mind as long as I have any memory 
left. Do you know that I first saw you in a halo?” 

“ In a halo ?” 

“ Yes ; the halo round a butcher’s shop in the Harrow Road. 
Shall we walk back ?” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

A man cannot take the rejection of his offer of marriage as 
though it were a matter of no consequence, and beg the lady not 
to mention it. He cannot do so in justice to the lady ; and he 
will scarcely be inclined to do so in consideration to himself. 

Fritz told Barbara, when they were returning to the house 
where Miss Hughes dwelt, that he would go back to the hotel for 
the present, and would probably return to London that evening. 

“ But you will come and see us soon ?” she said. 

“ As soon as I can. You have hit me harder than you seem 
to think, Barbara.” 

By this time Barbara had come to a very decided opinion on 
that point. She did not follow out her own reasonings very 
closely. In fact, she was scarcely conscious of reasoning on the 
subject at all. But there was an instinct in her heart which 
taught her that Fritz, even if he were hit, was not touched in a 
vital part. 

“ I would give a great deal to have spared you any uneasiness,” 
she said. 

“ Uneasiness ! As one might speak of a garment that did not 


332 


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fit. It is wonderful how cruel a woman can be — even so gentle 
and sweet-natured a woman as you are.” 

Fritz was not a hypocrite. He did feel a longing for this fair 
and lovable creature which he certainly had not felt when he be- 
lieved that the fair and lovable creature might be his whenever 
he should stretch out his hand. To Fritz, as to other sons of 
Adam in the like case, from the moment when Barbara became 
unattainable she became also more desirable. 

“ It is nothing to you what a fellow may suffer. You don’t 
care a straw for me, Barbara !” he said, detaining her hand for 
a moment as they reached the garden gate. 

“ You know I care for you a great deal,” she answered, look- 
ing up fearlessly into his face. 

“ Oh yes, as my old nurse did, who knew what was good for 
me, and never would let me have anything I liked !” 

Barbara broke into a spontaneous, silvery little laugh ; and 
Fritz, after trying for an instant to frown, could not refrain from 
laughing too. 

“ Ah, Barbara, Barbara,” he said, opening the gate for her to 
pass in, “ there may be no breaking of hearts, and yet — you don’t 
quite understand it all, dear.” 

Barbara did not, perhaps, quite understand it all ; nevertheless, 
she felt that her instinct was right, and that there had been no 
vital wound. 

She went up to her own room, and was meditating how to tell 
her news to her aunt and uncle, when there came a tap at the 
door, and Aunt Judith peeped in. 

“ Oh, you are there, Barbara. I was not sure whether you had 
come back,” she said. Then she looked at the girl’s face, and 
there was no need for Barbara to speak. 

“ Is it all over ?” said Aunt Judith. 

“ Sit down here for a moment, dear aunty. I want to talk to 
you.” 

There was a bright fire in the room — by Mr. Hofmann’s ex- 
press orders, as the landlady had informed them — and Miss 
Hughes sat down beside it, while Barbara placed herself on a 
low stool at her knees. 

“ Oh, I am so sorry, Barbara,” said the old lady, smoothing 
the girl’s soft hair with a trembling hand- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


333 


That motherly touch reassured Barbara in a moment'. She 
caught the trembling hand, and kissed it, and held it to her 
breast. “ I knew you would be sorry, dear Aunt Judith. And 
I am so grieved to make you sorry. But you are not angry ?” 

A gentle caress of the soft brown hair from the other hand 
was the only answer. 

“ Indeed, indeed, I could do no otherwise, Aunt Judith. I 
tried to persuade myself ; but all at once it came upon me as 
clear as sunlight that it would be doing him a wrong. There 
are some things one feels, although one cannot argue about them.” 

“ No, child,” assented Aunt Judith, mournfully, “ it is of no 
use to argue.” 

“ I did try to argue at first. And that did all the mischief.” 

“ Where is he ?” 

“ He has gone back to the hotel. I don’t think he will come 
again this evening.” 

“ Is he — is he very unhappy ?” 

Barbara turned round, leaning her arm on her grand-aunt’s 
knee, and looking up at her earnestly. “Aunt Judith,” she said, 
“ if I thought he was going to be seriously unhappy, I don’t know 
what I should do. I love him dearly. There is no one in the 
world more frank and generous and kind-hearted. But he is not 
going to be unhappy. I am sure of it. I believe he is not very 
unhappy even now.” 

She had half expected that Aunt Judith would protest against 
this assumption. But no protest came. 

“ What I am most afraid of,” said Barbara, after a while, “ is 
that Uncle William will be so grieved and disappointed.” 

“ He will be grieved and disappointed, of course.” 

“ I dare say he will blame me ; and I dare say I deserve it. 
But I hope he will not blame — Fritz.” 

“ Why should he blame him ?” 

“ No ; I don’t mean that he will precisely blame him. I mean 
— I scarcely know how to say it. At first he will be so grieved 
for his friend. But then when I tell him that Fritz is not 
broken-hearted, and that he will get over this trouble, and be quite 
his own cheerful self again very soon, I am afraid — I am afraid 
that my uncle may think less well of him than he did. And 
that would be terrible to me. Fritz Hofmann deserves nothing 


334 


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but respect and gratitude, and affection from us all — nothing 
else.” 

Barbara, with sympathetic insight into her uncle’s character, 
recognized that passionate single-heartedness which could scarcely 
be made to understand that a man should receive such a blow as 
Fritz had received, and not be lamed for life. 

Aunt Judith, although keen-sighted as to many points of this 
love-story, did not share Barbara’s penetrating vision here. It 
lay a little beyond the sphere of her imagination. 

“ Let me speak to your uncle,” she said, rising up from her 
chair. “ I think it is my place to tell him. It ought not to fall 
on you.” 

“ How good you are to me, Aunt Judith !” 

“ My dear child ! My poor, dear, motherless girl !” cried Ju- 
dith, folding her in her arms. And then, bidding Barbara re- 
main there quietly and rest, she left the room. 

The old lady’s interview with her nephew was a long one. 
William was utterly astonished by what she told him — astonished, 
and deeply disappointed. 

“ I cannot understand it,” he said, looking at Judith with grave, 
wondering eyes, and his forehead wrinkled with lines of perplex- 
ity. “ That Barbara should be fickle, that Barbara should have 
viewed the position lightly, is incredible. That, at least, it is 
impossible for me to believe.” 

“ She is not fickle. And she never views the rights and feel- 
ings of others lightly.” 

“ I am convinced of it. Who should be convinced of it, if 
not you and I ? But then, dear aunty, how is it ? What is the 
explanation of her letting Hofmann — my heart aches for him ! — 
go on all these weeks confirming himself in hope, if she is now 
to reject him ?” 

“ She was trying to persuade herself that such a marriage 
would be good and happy.” 

“ Persuade herself ! But, good Heaven, why should she try to 
persuade herself ? If persuasion were needed, that should have 
sufficed to show her that it could not be good and happy.” 

“ She has learned that at last.” 

“How has she learned it?” 

To this question Aunt Judith made no reply. But, presently, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


335 


laying her hand on her nephew’s arm, she said, “ William, it is 
Barbara’s nature to sacrifice her personal inclinations to her affec- 
tions. She has sacrificed them to me many a time, when I have 
been a cross, petulant old woman, seeming to put others before 
her ; although in my heart I always knew her worth. She would 
have sacrificed her wishes to you if she had ever had a wish con- 
trary to yours, and if it was possible for any human being to 
live with you and make sacrifices instead of receiving them. No, 
no, my dear; I know very well what I am saying. Well, then 
there came this offer of marriage. The man was a dear, good 
fellow ; a gentleman, highly educated, of a bright, sweet tem- 
per — and he was rich.” 

William turned round and flashed a quick look at her. 

“He was rich,” repeated Aunt Judith. “And we were poor. 
Barbara knew that she was the apple of your eye. She knew that 
if you could once see her safe from the rough usage of the world, 
half the troubles of your life would be at an end. And she said 
to herself — not just in those words, but that is what it came to — 
‘ I will marry this man for my uncle’s sake.’ ” 

William started up with a sudden ejaculation. And then be- 
gan to pace up and down the room ruffling his hair with his 
hands. 

“ And there is another thing to be said,” pursued Aunt Judith, 
after a brief silence. “ If Mr. Hofmann had been passionately 
in love with Barbara, I think — I think he might, perhaps, have 
won her.” 

“ Do you mean to tell me now that he doesn’t love her?” cried 
William, facing round almost angrily. 

“ No ; I don’t mean to tell you that. But I do mean to say 
that his is not the kind of love to take a girl’s heart by storm, 
and make her forget — everything. Men are not all alike. Every 
sane man will get over an unfortunate attachment in time, I sup- 
pose. But with a few the scar remains to their dying day. Fritz 
Hofmann is the dearest fellow in the world. And if he had mar- 
ried Barbara, she would have had the kindest of husbands. But 
there will be no scar — not a trace of it! And if you will only 
believe that, it will comfort you very much.” 

For a few minutes William continued to march up and down 
the room. Then he sat dovyn ? and, folding his arms, remained in 


336 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


deep meditation with a tenderly thoughtful face. At length he 
walked up to his aunt’s chair, and kissed her forehead. “ As I 
live,” he said, “ what astonishes me as much as any part of it is 
the wonderful way in which you have been able to understand it 
all. While I have been blinder than a bat. Are you a witch, 
Aunt Judith ?” 

“ No witch, William,” she answered, with a slow smile and a 
shake of the head. “ But, you see, I happen to be a woman ; 
and although I am an old woman now, I was once a young one — 
I was once a young one, my dear.” 

Meanwhile, Fritz Hofmann returned to London in a decidedly 
low-spirited state. He occupied some time on the day after he 
had parted from Barbara in writing a long letter to his mother. 
“ I wonder,” he said to himself, as he closed it, “ whether Mr. 
Arthur Maddison will consider the offence of even having pro- 
posed to Miss Copley sufficiently heinous to make him cut me 
out of his will ! Mutterchen will never tell him ; but I shall take 
good care that he knows it.” 

Then he shut himself up for some days with his books ; but it 
must he owned that the great work on comparative sociology 
made but little progress. And then, when he finally resolved to 
go and call at his Uncle Kettering’s, it almost appeared as though 
the whole family were in a conspiracy to annoy him ! 

Fritz felt it to be peculiarly irritating that Mr. Kettering, who 
(as he had learned from Olga) had expressed himself very strongly 
against the idea of an alliance with Miss Copley all the time that 
Fritz thought himself sure of her, should now take every oppor- 
tunity of praising her, and even of hinting what a charming wife 
she would make ! That Mr. Kettering knew nothing of the real 
state of the case did not at all soothe Fritz’s vexation. Then 
Sally Stringer, who had made great friends with him after her 
fashion, suddenly turned cold in her manner, and seemed to eye 
him with suspicion. Aunt Gertrude persistently advised him to 
“ make it up ” with Lady Lambton ; and — worst of all ! — Perikles 
Rhodonides began to haunt the house — morning, noon, and night. 

Mrs. Kettering privately remonstrated with her husband for 
encouraging Fritz to make up to Miss Copley. “ Not that I 
think he will be so silly as to do it,” she parenthetically added. 

“ We discussed all that, Gertrude. The circumstances are al- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


337 


tered. I merely chose to make your nephew understand that, so 
far as we are concerned, there would be no objection to welcom- 
ing the young lady into the family. But it is idle to talk of my 
‘encouraging’ Fritz in his pursuit of her. He would not be 
likely to pay much heed to that if I did ‘ encourage ’ him, as you 
call it. Nor does he stand in any need of it, I assure you ! He 
is constantly with Miss Copley’s family, and displays, rather osten- 
tatiously, the familiar and intimate footing he is on with them.” 

“ Who told you so, Philip?” 

“ I — a — I heard it casually ; but on what I believe to be very 
good authority.” 

Mr. Kettering did not think it necessary to tell his wife that 
Mrs. Armour had paid him a secret and confidential visit at his 
counting-house in the city, to implore his advice about the invest- 
ment of her “ poor, wretched little five hundred pounds,” and 
had then favored him with an account of her having seen Mr. 
Hofmann at Norwood. Gertrude was prejudiced against Mrs. 
Armour, and it might possibly increase her prejudice to men- 
tion this circumstance, in which view Mr. Kettering was, no 
doubt, correct. 

“ Do you know what Sally says?” said Mrs. Kettering, placidly, 
after some quiet reflection. “ She says that Mr. Hughes will 
never touch a penny of Dalton’s money, because of that dreadful 
family story, you know.” 

“ Tut, tut, my dear. That, I take leave to say, is all moonshine. 
The money has not been bequeathed to Mr. Hughes. Time 
enough for him to repudiate it when he is asked to accept it.” 

“ But Sally says she hears he won’t let his niece touch a penny 
of it either. And he tried to persuade the young man to refuse 
the legacy.” 

“ Refuse the legacy ! Good heavens, Gertrude, that would be 
stark madness ! I don’t believe a word of it.” 

“The young man hasn't refused it, you know.” 

“ No, I should imagine not ! Upon my honor, there is no 
limit to the absurd things people will say and believe.” 

There was something in this suggestion of giving up a large 
fortune that jarred inexpressibly on Mr. Kettering’s sense of the 
fitness of things. 

And on this point Mr. Kettering held opinions almost identical 
22 


338 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


with those of Mr. John Hopkins, only, of course, very differently 
expressed. 

Hopkins flew into a violent passion when the rumor first reached 
him, and begged to know whether he — John Hopkins — were gen- 
erally taken to be an out-and-out idiot, that he should be expected 
to believe such things. But after a while he took higher ground, 
and pronounced that, bad as the whole business had been, he re- 
garded this statement as by far the worst feature in it. Could he 
be sure that Mr. William Hughes had tried on any gammon of that 
sort, he should have a lower opinion of him than he now held. 

“But,” said Mortimer, answering him pretty much as Mrs. 
Kettering had answered her husband, “you won’t catch Copley 
doing anything of the sort — not if he’s aware of it !” 

“You needn’t tell me that, Mortimer. Your father wasn’t 
born yesterday, thank you ! But it’s the principle of the thing 
I’m looking at. There’s a — an abject meanness about it. Why, a 
man that would pretend he wanted to refuse three hundred thou- 
sand pounds would — dashed if I can think of anything he wouldn't 
do that’s sneaking and underhanded !” 

“ They’re not quite — not just exactly like the common run of 
people, you know,” said Mortimer, deprecatingly. 

“ Who ain’t ?” 

“ Mr. Hughes and Miss Copley. There’s a something — what 
you might call poetical about ’em, you know.” 

“ Mortimer,” said his father, with severe moral indignation, 
“ drop that ! I say nothing against the gal.” 

“You’d better not, before me, governor,” interposed Morti- 
mer, chivalrously. 

“ I’d better say what I mean, sir, before you and everybody 
else. And I intend to. But as I don’t mean anything against 
the gal, I sha’n’t say anything against the gal. But when you 
come to talk of poetry in connection with better than a quarter 
of a million of money, I simply tell you to drop that. For I’m 
d — d if I stand it, and now you know !” 

Mortimer was conscious of a great deal of burning eloquence 
within him ; but he was also conscious that it would be entirely 
wasted on his father, and therefore kept it pent up in his soul for 
the present, intending to pour it forth to more appreciative ears 
by and by. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


339 


Presently Hopkins inquired of his son whether he had “been 
and offered to the gal ” yet. 

“ No ; I haven’t exactly offered yet. I did call twice, but she 
wasn’t at home. I can’t persecute her, you know. There is a 
certain delicacy — ” 

“A certain fiddlestick! You’re chicken-hearted, I suppose, 
that’s about the long and the short of it. Look here, Mortimer, 
it’s no good fooling about like this. You’d better give it up, and 
devote your mind to business for the present. There’s plenty of 
time before you need think of marrying.” 

“ I shall never give it up — unless she bids me,” said Mortimer. 

“ I think you’d a deal better. There’s heaps of girls as good 
as her. She’s nothing so very wonderful, after all.” 

“ Others hold a different opinion. Others admire and adore 
her — not as I do, though. And, besides, I began first. I hear 
that young Hofmann is after her.” 

“ Who ?” 

“ Hofmann ; that German chap ; nephew to Philip Kettering, 
Esquire ; ’ighly connected ; and got a pot of money of his own ; 
quite independent,” said Mortimer, heaping up these testimo- 
nies to Miss Copley’s merits and attractions with considerable 
pride, albeit with a gloomy brow. 

Mr. Hopkins whistled. “ What, that young swell ? I remem- 
ber him.” 

“I learn,” pursued Mortimer, folding his arms, and rather en- 
joying himself, “ that Hofmann lays his offerings at her shrine. 
I’ve seen him spend fifteen bob for flowers in Covent Garden 
when he little guessed who dogged his footsteps. I learn, too, 
from another source, that he goes in and out at Hughes’s studio 
like a tame cat. And I learn from yet another source that he 
went down to Norwood, where Copley is, and stayed with the 
family ; and one of the Miss Ketterings went there too and called 
on the old lady.” 

“No! You don’t mean that? Then I tell you what it is, 
Mortimer : they’ve got scent, somehow, that the gal’s going to 
have a big slice of that money ! Why, if the young chap only 
lives long enough over the 30th of next March to sign a will — 
You’d better look sharp about making your offer, if you mean to 
make it. And, later on, I think I could square it with Baikie 


340 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


& Wiggetts to give you a little ’oliday ; and we’ll run down to 
Norwood and keep a watch on ’em, turn and turn about, as the 
time draws nigh.” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

Since the evening when he had stood and watched Fritz Hof- 
matin deliver his posy and his message to Larcher, Hazel had 
debated with himself day by day whether it would be well to 
leave London without seeing Hughes again, or whether he should 
summon courage to visit once more the shabby little house where 
he had bad that brief, bright glimpse of happiness in Barbara’s 
dear presence. 

He had declared to himself that night that he would make a 
struggle to win her yet, if Hofmann were not worthy of her. But 
in the cold light of the next day all that seemed very hopeless 
and impracticable. What chance had he of knowing more of 
Hofmann? What likelihood of influencing Barbara’s feelings 
and opinions about him ? What part had he in her life ? He was 
a stranger who had chanced to fall in her way for a few weeks, 
with whom she had been sweet and gracious so long as their paths 
lay together, and from whom she had parted with a calm fare- 
well. 

And yet — and yet she had been glad to see him. Those eyes 
and that smile were true, or there was nothing true in God’s 
world; and in their innocent candor they had said more than 
words. He forced himself to attend diligently to the business 
intrusted to him. Duty must be done, and done with thorough- 
ness, but the thought of Barbara ran through every hour of his 
waking day. 

He avoided the society of the people at the boarding-house, 
and when his day’s work was done he would go out and walk 
aimlessly about the streets, until he thought he was tired enough 
to sleep. Once he accepted an invitation from a correspondent 
of his employers, Mr. Wilson having recommended him not to 
repulse any civilities of that sort. But for the most part he wan- 
dered about alone in the evenings. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


341 


If she were to be happy — if she were to be happy, he could 
bear it. So he told himself. But the thought of her happiness 
as the wife of another man failed to administer as much conso- 
lation to him as, perhaps, it ought to have done. And as he 
tramped through the busy streets with his hat low on his brows, 
he felt very desolate, and his heart was very sore. 

The solitude, however, was of his own seeking. Mrs. Armour 
had encountered him in the boarding-house, as we know ; and 
had greeted him with flattering warmth. For, although Mrs. 
Armour had spoken somewhat disdainfully of him at Norwood, 
she showed no disdain in her manner to him. On the contrary, 
she was eager in her manifestations of pleasure at seeing him 
again, and made many sentimental references “to the dear old 
days at Budjapore.” 

From various intimations, Mrs. Armour had gleaned the im- 
pression that Gilbert Hazel’s present prospects and position were 
far more prosperous than when she first knew him in India. And 
she began to consider within herself whether it might not be well 
to set about fascinating him seriously. Some degree of fascina- 
tion Juliet Armour thought it desirable to exercise over every 
man who might by any possibility be useful to her — over Mr. Ket- 
tering, for instance. But with Hazel it might be worth while to 
be in earnest. 

She presented in the attitude of her mind on this point a curi- 
ous contrast to Lady Lambton. Lady Lambton also practised 
fascination ; but in a very different spirit. It was impossible for 
Lady Lambton to hold a very low opinion of any man who ad- 
mired her — so long as the admiration lasted. She accepted his 
compliments uncritically, as a child eats sweetmeats. They de- 
lighted her. And although she wished and intended to marry 
again when an eligible suitor should present himself, yet her mind 
was not constantly bent on that object. The pleasure she took 
in her flirtations might be described as Vart pour Vart. An ap- 
preciative crossing-sweeper who should have the wit to manifest 
his appreciation of her beauty would be sure of a smile from 
Lady Lambton. 

Juliet Armour was made of sterner stuff. Originally of a hard 
nature, which blind indulgence in childhood had made selfish and 
exacting, she considered her life to have been a series of unmer- 


342 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


ited disappointments. Her father had lived extravagantly, and, 
at his death, left very little behind him, and of that little the 
greater part went to her sister Dora. Iler husband, Major Ar- 
mour, whom she had married chiefly on the strength of his good 
family connections, never obtained any patronage that availed to 
advance him in his profession, and died without having obtained 
a colonelcy. In a few years during her Indian life, and while 
youth lasted, she was courted and flattered. But there came wid- 
owhood, restricted means, and the inexorable march of the years ; 
and, finally, the glittering hopes of her uncle’s inheritance had 
been dangled for a moment before her eyes and then snatched 
away forever. 

There was an almost tragic intensity in the bitterness that filled 
her heart. She flirted and cajoled and fascinated as she best 
knew how, but with none of Amy Lambton’s credulous enjoy- 
ment. Mrs. Armour was quite capable of despising, even of hat- 
ing, the men who showed themselves amenable to her attractions. 
She had pride of a certain kind, and she revenged herself for the 
humiliations she incurred in her own esteem by wrathful con- 
tempt towards those for whom she incurred them. 

But for Gilbert Hazel she did not feel any wrathful contempt. 
She had ridiculed what she called his quixotism ; but it had a 
charm for her. She liked the very reserve of his manner, which 
was always respectful. Mr. Hazel, at least, did not instantly 
jump to the conclusion that his oglings and his speeches and his 
flatteries must necessarily delight her, as so many self-conceited 
idiots did 1 Nevertheless, she went on bidding for the good 
graces of the self-conceited idiots. 

She encountered Hazel some days after her visit to Norwood, 
and began to speak of the Hughes family. She felt her way 
rather carefully ; wishing to disparage them, and yet not wishing 
to sink in his opinion by a display of rancor. She was aware 
from Miss Jenks’s report that he had been told the story of Dal- 
ton’s will. And she intimated, as she had done to Fritz, that 
she had magnanimously made advances to the Hugheses in order 
to show the world that she — who was the person chiefly injured 
by Dalton’s will — was not among those who accused them of dis- 
honorable practices. 

“Do you not think I was right?” she said. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


343 


“ I think you were quite right to clear yourself of complicity 

in calumny,” answered Hazel. 

*/ ' 

Oh — calumny ? Well, at all events the assertion is not war- 
ranted by anything that can be proved. Not that my friendship 
is of so much consequence to them now as it was some months 
ago,” pursued Mrs. Armour. “ They will not lack partisans. A 
young gentleman of my acquaintance is already paying very par- 
ticular attention to Miss Copley, who would scarcely have done 
so — I don’t say that he is solely attracted by les beaux yeux de sa 
cassette ; but of course the charms of a well-dressed young lady 
are placed in a peculiarly favorable light.” 

“You are severe on your friend.” 

“Miss Copley is scarcely a friend of mine. I saw her for the 
first time a few days ago.” 

“ I mean the man.” 

“Oh! Poor Mr. Hofmann! But, my dear Mr. Hazel, where 
shall we find a paladin sans peur et sans reproche? I declare if 
I were asked to point out a disinterested man, I think I should 
name you ! And very possibly I might be mistaken,” she added, 
with a smile and a coquettish glance. 

Hazel turned away with a strong feeling of disgust. “The 
woman is a humbug ingrain,” he said to himself. 

And yet, in this instance, she had been sincere. 

“Are you going?” said Mrs. Armour. “You must come and 
see me at my sister’s house. Dora will be so pleased to make 
your acquaintance. She has heard of you. She knows all the 
details of my Indian life.” 

Hazel had his doubts as to that. But he merely bowed, and 
muttered something about his stay in town being very brief. 

“ Oh, but your business will bring you to town again ! We 
must not quite lose sight of each other after meeting again by 
this unexpected chance. I consider that we are old comrades, 
you know. Ah, those were happy days at dear old Budja- 
pore !” 

Then Hazel got himself away from her presence, and went out 
into the streets. He must make up his mind on that question of 
trying to see Barbara again. At one moment he almost desired 
that a telegram might arrive from Staffordshire cutting short his 
further stay in town ; at another it seemed to him that to leave 


344 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


the place where Barbara dwelt would be like losing hold of the 
last spar and plunging down into despair. 

He had wandered into Hyde Park — not of set purpose, but 
instinctively attracted by the space and air. Returning along 
Piccadilly, an elderly gentleman met him, stared hard, passed 
him, turned back, and said, hesitatingly, “ Isn’t your name Ha- 
zel?” 

And Hazel, roused from his reverie, looked up, and, holding 
out his hand, exclaimed, “ Colonel Mullett !” 

“ My dear boy, I’m uncommon glad to see you ! Bless my 
soul, it must be eight or nine years since we met ! But I thought 
I knew the face. Where have you dropped from ? Are you 
home on leave?” 

“ On a very long leave, colonel. I have left the army. But I 
beg pardon — I ought to say general, oughtn’t I ?” 

“Yes; when they put me on the shelf they labelled me gen- 
eral. I’ll turn and walk back with you. I should be going back 
about this hour, at any rate. Bless my soul ! Little Bertie Ha- 
zel ! I never thought you’d have left the service. It seemed a 
regular vocation, you know. You used to play with my sword 
before you were breeched ; and you stuck to it through thick and 
thin. I suppose if you had gone into the church you’d have 
dropped into the family living when your poor father — ah, dear 
me, that was very sad ! A man in the prime of life. He was at 
Winchester with me. And what are you doing? On my soul, 
I’m uncommon glad to see you !” 

Then, as they walked along, Hazel narrated briefly the circum- 
stances that had led to his accepting his present position. Gen- 
eral Mullett listened with great interest ; and, before they parted 
at the corner of St. James’s Street, had made Hazel promise that 
he would dine with him that evening. “In my quarters, you 
know, quietly ; so that we can have a good long talk. There’s 
heaps of things I want to know. You won’t get so good a feed 
as you would at my club ; but my old housekeeper will manage 
a chop and an omelet, I dare say. Good-by. Don’t lose the 
card with my address ; and don’t forget eight sharp !” 

Hazel was punctual to the appointed hour, and found his old 
friend in a very luxurious little home ; and was set down to a 
handsome and well-appointed dinner. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


345 


“ You mustn’t be critical, Bertie,” said the general. “ It’s an 
impromptu affair, you know.” 

“ My dear general, I have fared sumptuously.” 

“ No — no ; that’s nonsense ! But I can give you a decent glass 
of claret. No more? Well, then, shall we have a cigar and a 
cup of coffee in my den ? I always smoke in my den, because 
there’s a couple of good easy-chairs there ; and I lose the sooth- 
ing effect of my ’baccy if I’m sitting at a wrong angle. And 
now, Bertie,” said the host, when they were installed in the den, 
“ tell me all about everything.” 

“ Well — you know that my poor dad lost all he had in the 
world in — ” 

“ I know that. Poor dear Hazel ! We were in Commoners 
together. Ah dear ! fugaces labuntur anni /” 

“ And you know that Carry Foster married Dumbleton ?” 

“ I know that, too !” and the general muttered something 
about Carry Foster which, perhaps, it was as well that the cigar 
between his lips rendered unintelligible. Then he said, more 
distinctly, “And I understood you to say this afternoon that this 
Mr. Wilson had come forward soon after your father’s death, and 
offered to give you a berth.” 

“Yes; but I refused. I was as poor as a rat; but I knew I 
could live on my pay with what I had, and I didn’t much care 
what became of me.” 

There was a short pause, and then General Mullet, waving 
aside a cloud of fragrant tobacco with his hand, so as to get a 
good look at Hazel, said, 

“ And after a time something happened that made you begin 
to care what became of you — eh ?” 

Hazel was silent. 

“ Well, my dear boy,” said the elder man, after a moment or 
two, “ I don’t want to be intrusive. Pass me the cognac. Don’t 
you take a chasse .” 

Then all at once Hazel opened his heart, and told the story of 
his love and the bitter disappointment that had awaited him in 
England — told it all, simply and fully, down to his life in the 
boarding-house near Red Lion Square ; only reserving all mention 
of Barbara’s name. 

“I knew there was a woman in the case!” exclaimed the general 
when he had finished. 


346 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“Did you? How?” asked Hazel, looking at him earnestly. 

Mullett waived that question, and inquired whether the lady were 
aware of Hazel’s attachment. 

“ I can’t tell. I have never spoken. I suppose not.” 

“H’m ! I’d lay odds she knew it. They always do.” 

“You cannot judge of her by that sort of generalizing worldly 
wisdom.” 

“ Ahem ! Ah, exactly ! I mean, if she were another young 
lady, she probably would know it. She has no money ?” 

“ So far as I know, not a halfpenny.” 

“I see. You don’t think, under the circumstances, on the 
whole, you know, that you had better give it up?” 

“ Much better. Only it won’t give me up.” 

“ Then,” said the general, after a short pause, during which he 
had puffed at his cigar with unusual energy, “ there’s nothing for it 
but to make a dash for the enemy’s guns and carry her off from 
under the nose of the other fellow. There’s no middle course that 
I see.” 

“Unfortunately there’s precisely that middle course which seems 
to be the lot of most mortals. ‘ Not to desire and admire, if a man 
could learn it, were more ’ — than all sorts of fine things. But a 
man can’t leave off desiring and admiring simply because he sees 
it would be the most comfortable line to take.” 

“ Well, look here, Bertie, you must let me see as much of you as 
possible while you’re in town.” 

And then General Mullett proposed that if Bertie would dine 
with him again the next night, they should go afterwards to the 
house of some friends and neighbors of his whom Bertie would 
find agreeable acquaintances. But Hazel defended himself strenu- 
ously against this proposal. He had no spirits for society. He 
might be called away at a moment’s notice, and so forth. The 
general, however, still persisted. 

“ You must pull yourself together, you know. Why, even for 
the sake of carrying on the campaign, it will never do to mope 
about like an owl ! By George, you know, the idea of your 
feeding at that hideous boarding-house, and then wandering about 
the streets by yourself, is altogether too ghastly. ’Pon my soul it 
is ! Besides, these people may be useful acquaintances in the way 
of business. Philip Kettering is a man of mark in the city. His 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


347 


wife is a German — one of the Hofmanns of Hamburg, also mer- 
cantile swells, and — ” 

“ Hofmann ?” 

“ Yes ; and, by the way, her nephew is an uncommon nice 
fellow. You and he ought to be pals.” 

“General, if I may choose my mind, and if it can be done with- 
out giving you any trouble, I think I will go to your friend’s, if 
you will present me.” 

“ Bravo ! That’s right ! You really must pull yourself together, 
you know. 

“ * Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Prithee, why so pale? 

Will, if looking well can’t move her, 

Looking ill prevail ?’ ” 

“ Good-night, general. It’s awfully good of you to let me bore 
you with my troubles.” 

The elder man took Hazel’s hand, and gripped it silently. 

“It has been a real comfort to speak to an old friend. I was so 
desperately lonely !” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

“There’s no party, you understand,” said the general, when he 
and Hazel were putting on their overcoats the next evening after 
dinner. “ Mrs. Kettering is generally at home on Friday to one or 
two intimate friends, that’s all. There’s no affectation about any 
of ’em ; and just a little touch of foreign manners that makes 
things easy and agreeable. I find it an uncommon pleasant house 
to go to. Phil Kettering and I are very good friends; all the 
women of the family are nice to look at ; and ” — with a little grave, 
emphatic lowering of the voice — “I have not had one bad glass of 
wine there in ten years.” 

Then, as they drove along, he told Hazel that he had called 
that morning to ask Mrs. Kettering’s leave to present his friend, 
and that the proposal had been received with the greatest cor- 
diality. 


348 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ I just said a word, you know, about your father’s people in 
Buckinghamshire, just to let ’em know who you are.” 

“ I suppose all that they care to know is that I come under 
your wing, general ; and that you answer for my not stealing the 
spoons, or putting my boots on the chimney-piece.” 

“ No ; that’s not quite all. Kettering professes very democratic 
opinions. But I don’t think he likes to have them taken too 
much for granted, you know — see what I mean? Well, here we 
are.” 

General Mullett felt something almost like paternal pride in his 
companion as they mounted the stairs to Mrs. Kettering’s drawing- 
room side by side. “Bertie not only looks every inch a gentleman, 
but he’s an uncommon handsome fellow into the bargain !” thought 
he to himself with much complacency. 

In the drawing-room a small company was assembled. There 
was Lady Lambton, accompanied by her sister Blanche, whom 
she had recently introduced to the Ketterings, and who, made 
very happy by the enlarged possibilities of new frocks conferred 
by Dalton’s legacy, had greatly disgusted Eleanor’s severe taste by 
appearing in a toilet of the latest fashion ; whereas we all know 
that costumes, like port-wine, require the warranty of time be- 
fore a connoisseur who respects himself will confess to liking 
them. 

There was Perikles Rhodonides paying great court to the mis- 
tress of the house, on the back of whose chair Ida was leaning 
with both arms, and occasionally joining in the conversation. 
There was Miss Stringer, looking very alert and vivacious, and 
chatting with Blanche Shortway and a very young but very 
solemn gentleman who had lately published, at his own expense, 
a long poem in blank verse, founded on some Norse legends; for 
Mr. Kettering cultivated literary society within moderate limits, 
and thought it incumbent on commerce to patronize the Muses. 

And there, also, seated near his cousin Olga, with whom he 
was discussing some point that required frequent reference to the 
notes in a small pocket-book, was Fritz Hofmann. Hazel recog- 
nized him instantly, and involuntarily fixed his eyes with a scru- 
tinizing glance on the other man’s face. 

The entrance of General Mullett and his friend was greeted 
with polite warmth of manner by the host and hostess ; but in the 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


349 


breast of at least one person present it excited a gleam of genuine 
delight. Lady Lambton had found herself in the unusual position 
of being neglected. There were present two men whom she 
reckoned among her adorers — Hofmann and Rhodonides — and 
yet she was left with no other attention than Mr. Kettering’s, and 
no other incense than that of his urbane compliments. These, to 
be sure, were better than nothing. But they were far from being 
all she had a right to expect. Her heart leaped up, as did the 
poet’s when he beheld a rainbow in the sky, on the entrance of 
the two last comers. One of them, she had reason to think, she 
had already charmed, and the other appeared to be well worth 
charming. 

“I think it is extremely kind of you, Mr. Hazel, to come to us 
in this unceremonious way,” said Mrs. Kettering, in her placid 
voice, and with her pretty placid smile. “Of course I understand 
that we owe that favor to the good offices of our friend General 
Mullett ; and we are greatly obliged to him.” 

Hazel made a suitable reply, and sat down near his hostess in 
a chair which she indicated to him. Then he was presented to 
Ida, and Mrs. Kettering said a word of introduction between him 
and Rhodonides. Meanwhile General Mullett made his way across 
the room to Lady Lambton, who received him with her most spark- 
ling smiles, whereby the general, all unconscious that much of 
their brightness was intended to glance off himself in the direc- 
tion of his friend, was greatly flattered. 

Hazel, while he said the little commonplaces of the moment to 
Ida and Mrs. Kettering, could not keep his glances from wander- 
ing in the direction of Fritz Hofmann, whom he contemplated 
with mingled bitterness and perplexity. The man sat there, bend- 
ing down to talk to that flaxen-haired girl beside him as though 
he had no greater interest in the world than listening to her re- 
plies; cheerful, smiling, evidently wholly at his ease, while all the 
time it depended only on his own will to leave that luxurious 
room — that big, splendid, empty casket — and be admitted to the 
dim little shrine where Barbara was shining! It was incompre- 
hensible — almost incredible, although he saw it before his eyes. 

Mrs. Kettering at length noticed the persistence with which her 
guest kept regarding Fritz and Olga; and, being more than will- 
ing to break up that tete-a-tete , she called Olga to her by a little 


350 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


gesture of the hand. “ I must make you known to my elder 
daughter, Mr. Hazel,” said she. 

Hazel, of course, rose from his chair as the young girl ap- 
proached him, and bowed to her when her mother mentioned his 
name. The next moment, as he stood erect again, he found him- 
self face to face with Fritz Hofmann, who was looking at him 
with a frank, pleasant smile, and holding out his hand. 

“ Mr. Hazel,” said Fritz, “ my name is Hofmann. I know you 
are a friend of a very dear friend of mine — William Hughes, the 
painter. I am very glad to meet you.” 

“ My nephew,” said Mrs. Kettering. And then Hazel gave the 
other man his hand. They were about the same height, and they 
looked for a moment straight into each other’s eyes. 

Fritz, who had been attracted by the stranger’s face, and moved 
by a friendly impulse the moment he heard his name, was sud- 
denly conscious of a little chill. Something stern and cold seemed 
to come into the dark eves that had been bent on Olga the mo- 
rnent before with such winning gentleness. 

“Very odd!” thought Fritz. “One would almost say the man 
disliked me — only that’s scarcely possible, seeing that he never 
beheld me before !” He was not, however, specially sensitive to 
such impressions. So he shook off the little unpleasant chilly 
sensation as best he could, and began to talk. But he found it 
uphill work. And what struck him again as singular was that 
Hazel, on his part, appeared to be struggling against some sense 
of repulsion and difficulty ; and yet to wish, nevertheless, to carry 
on the conversation. 

“ Sind wir etiva bezaubert ? — Are we both bewitched?” mut- 
tered Fritz to himself. But he stuck to his task and talked on. 

Mrs. Kettering was well content to see him thus occupied, and 
signed to Olga to remain near her. “ You see,” she said, turning 
towards Rhodonides, “Fritz never had a sister of his own. But 
my girls have been exactly like sisters to him all their lives. Ex- 
actly the same.” 

“I think Fritz is ever so much nicer to us than a brother,” said 
Ida. “ Brothers are horrid, sometimes. The Laurie girls give the 
most awful account of their brothers! But Fritz always does 
everything we ask him — everything that Olga asks him, at any 
rate.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


351 


“ Ida ! Be so good as not to interrupt me when I am speak- 

ing. 

“I thought you had finished, mamma.” 

“ My nephew,” continued Mrs. Kettering, still addressing Rho- 
donides, “ is writing a book in his own language ; and as Olga is 
quite as conversant with German as with English, he occasionally 
gets her to read portions of it ; and that has — has thrown them a 
great deal together lately.” 

“ I’m sure Miss Kettering is very clever,” said Rhodonides. 

“ Of course she is !” exclaimed Ida, stoutly. “ Fritz says she 
has great — what was it? Oh, I know! — psychological insight.” 

“ Never mind what Fritz says, Ida. Mr. Rhodonides will be 
sick of the subject.” 

“ Oh no, indeed !” protested that amiable young man. “ I’m 
quite sure Miss Kettering knows a great deal about psychology. 
I think it’s very nice indeed.” 

“ Oh, Olga has no pretensions to be a has bleu /” said Olga’s 
mother. “ She has many delightful qualities — at least, we think 
so.” 

“ Oh, I’m sure she has,” muttered Rhodonides. 

“ But she does not set up to be a woman of intellect, like 
Lady Lambton, for instance.” 

“Oh yes! Lady Lambton is very intellectual, isn’t she?” 

“ Very.” 

“ Ah, but you don’t like people to be too clever — I mean al- 
ways up in the clouds — do you?” burst in Ida. “You said so 
that night at the theatre. No more do I.” 

This time Mrs. Kettering did not chide. She contented her- 
self with smiling, shaking her head, and saying, “ Ida, Ida, you 
are a sadly spoiled child !” 

“Oh, not at all !” put in Rhodonides. “ I’m sure Miss Ida is 
not in the least spoiled. But I don’t quite remember objecting 
to cleverness, you know.” 

“ No ; but you agreed with me that you didn’t like theories. 
Don’t you remember when Fritz and Olga were mooning on 
about — about affinities? You must remember that! I said I 
thought theories only muddled people’s brains; and you said yes, 
you thought they did.” 

“ Well, I — I’m not quite sure, you know.” 


352 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“Ob, you did say so! You know you did!” exclaimed Ida, 
with indignant earnestness. 

“ Ida !” interrupted her mother, severely. 

“Oh, indeed, Mrs. Kettering, I have no doubt Miss Ida is 
quite right — quite right in the main, you know. I remember 
now perfectly well. She was most amiable and — and amusing. 

I never enjoyed an evening more — really, I never did.” 

Mrs. Kettering now proposed that Ida should show Miss Short- 
way the sketches she had made in Vevey — for Miss Shortway was 
sitting, somewhat forlorn, between Sally Stringer and the poet of 
the Northern Sagas, whom Sally was apparently reducing to a 
condition of great prostration and confusion of mind by her bold 
and heterodox opinions. 

When Ida tripped away to get her portfolio, Mrs. Kettering took 
the opportunity of vacating her own seat, and leaving Rhodonides 
near Olga. As she walked in her leisurely fashion towards Miss 
Stringer, she heard the latter say, with her tightest and most dis- 
tinct articulation, 

“ Fiddlesticks about ‘ realism !’ A dunghill is real, and a rose 
is real ; but does any one doubt which to sniff at?” 

Upon which the solemn young gentleman gasped, and looked 
about him helplessly. 

Mrs. Kettering, watching them quietly, saw Rhodonides at once 
begin to talk with Olga, and saw also that he had evidently hit 
upon some topic which interested her. Olga smiled, and grew 
quite animated, and presently they both rose and joined Ida and 
Blanche, who were turning over the sketches at a side-table, and 
the four young people were soon chatting away with great vivacity. 

The complacency with which Mrs. Kettering observed all this 
was not shared by her nephew. Hazel became aware that Fritz’s 
attention was wandering as they stood still, conversing together, 
near the fireplace ; and at length Fritz suggested that they should 
go and look at the sketches. 

“ My little Cousin Ida really draws very well,” he said. “And, 
by the way, Hughes gave her some lessons last autumn.” 

And he thereupon led the way to the table where the contents 
of the portfolio were spread out, and insinuated himself into a 
place between Olga and Rhodonides, to his Aunt Gertrude’s great 
chagrin. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


353 


“ Fritz is too bad ! One would say he did it on purpose !” she 
whispered to Sally ; and Sally, after one sharp look at her, replied 
emphatically, 

“Yes; that is exactly what one would say.” 

Owing to his unusually long absence from the Ketterings’ 
house, Fritz had not seen Olga and Rhodonides together for 
some time ; and he was struck this evening by the warmth and 
friendliness of his cousin’s manner to the young man. Rhodon- 
ides had dined there, as had Fritz; and had seemed to Fritz to 
make himself almost one of the family. Still, after dinner, the 
cousins had a confidential chat together about the magnum opus, 
as Fritz jestingly called the book he was writing. Fritz had, in 
fact, engrossed Olga up to the time of General Mullett’s arrival ; 
and had made up his mind to tell her at the first opportunity 
how things stood between him and Miss Copley. But that must 
be done when they were secure from interruptions. On the 
whole, Fritz was tolerably comfortable about Olga. It was im- 
possible that she should give herself to that ass, though he 
really was an amiable kind of ass. How bright she was! And 
how pretty ! And how she interested herself in all his plans and 
theories ! Fritz had not, perhaps, more than a wholesome amount 
of vanity. But certainly the innocent way in which Olga, while 
she scolded and laughed at and contradicted him, conveyed implicit 
faith in his superior talents was exquisitely agreeable. Barbara 
had never scolded or laughed at him. But neither had she dis- 
played any absorbing interest in the magnum opus. 

Then, as they all stood looking at Ida’s sketches, Fritz contrived 
to place himself, as Mrs. Kettering had observed, between Olga and 
Rhodonides. 

When Hazel said a few words of praise to Ida about her draw- 
ings, she answered, with her usual straightforward candor, that the 
merit of them was chiefly due to her teacher. “He never touched 
them, you know, but he made me see things. I believe I have 
some eye for color ; but you have no idea what botches I made 
before Mr. Hughes taught me.” 

“ Oh, I’m sure you didn’t, Miss Ida ! I can’t believe that,” said 
Rhodonides. 

“ Why can’t you?” inquired Ida, looking full at him with her 
blue eyes very wide open. “ I did make dreadful botches. Mr, 
23 


354 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Hughes is quite a real artist, you know ; not a mere drawing- 
master,’ 1 she continued, addressing Hazel. “ And he is so clever, 
and so patient, and not a bit conceited or stuck-up, and so kind — 
I adore Mr. Hughes.” 

“ I know Mr. Hughes very well, and I quite agree with you,” 
said Hazel, looking down at the girl with a smile. 

“ Do you ? Oh, I’m very glad you are a friend of his !” 

“ Oh, but, although I dare say Mr. Hughes is as nice as you say, 
at home we’re all in love with another member of the family,” 
exclaimed Blanche Shortway, impulsively. And then she stopped 
short, blushing to find the general attention fixed upon her. 

“Oh, come, Isay! Another? These Hugheses have an un- 
conscionable share of good luck ; haven’t they ?” said Perikles 
Rhodonides. 

“ Oh, but the one I mean is a lady,” said Blanche, with great 
simplicity. “ It is Mr. Hughes’s niece, Miss Copley.” 

“ Miss Copley !” echoed Ida. “ Oh ! Yes ; Miss Copley is 
very nice.” 

“ My mother raves about her.” 

“ She is very nice,” said Ida, decisively, after a moment’s delib- 
eration. “ And I think there’s something noble about her : she’s 
always so true. But she isn’t — is she very handsome, do you 
think?” addressing this question to Blanche Shortway as an 
artistic authority. 

“Not in a showy style. But she has wonderful purity of 
coloring. And if you were to take a crayon and try to trace her 
profile, you would see how fine and delicate the lines are.” 

“ Yes; I can understand that,” said Ida, nodding thoughtfully. 
Then, suddenly turning towards Hazel, she asked, “And do you 
know Miss Copley as well as her uncle ?” 

“ Yes ; I know her.” 

Fritz looked across the table at Hazel as the latter said those 
four commonplace words; and all at once there came upon him 
such an illumination as made the blood rush into his face. 

From time to time during the rest of the evening he kept call- 
ing up recollections of looks and tones — fleeting and intangible 
things, which yet, taken together, held a strong significance. Of 
course, Barbara had been with her uncle at the farm-house where 
they had first met Hazel! He remembered hearing Hughes 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


355 


speak of that holiday ; and, of course, Hazel had fallen in love 
with her there! As to that, Fritz had no doubt whatever. 
But beyond feeling morally sure of that fact, he did not see his 
way very far. He could not help wondering whether Barbara’s 
eyes would light up, and the soft color come into her cheek, for 
this confoundedly good-looking fellow, as they certainly never 
had done for him. And he could not help a slight passing sen- 
sation of envy at the thought of those beams and blushes. A 
woman may not only resign her lover, but may, under some cir- 
cumstances, take pleasure in witnessing his happiness, and petting 
his wife and his sweetheart. But to a man — although he, too, 
can resign — there is never anything agreeable in the contempla- 
tion of another man’s love-making. Fritz had thoroughly given 
up all thought of winning Barbara; and he had been, on the 
whole, pleased with the way his philosophy had stood the strain 
on it. He was master of himself, as he had assured his mother 
he should be. But he did not, in these first moments, feel any 
cordial satisfaction in the idea that Barbara might possibly love 
Mr. Gilbert Hazel. 

As they all stood round the table, still looking at Ida’s land- 
scapes, Lady Lambton came up on General Mullett’s arm, and 
demanded to know what they were so interested in. Her lady- 
ship had become extremely tired of sitting among the elders — 
Mr. and Mrs. Kettering, Miss Stringer, and General Mullett — even 
although the general’s attentions had been more devoted than 
usual. 

“Oh, drawings!” she exclaimed. “You know that Art is, to 
me, the very breath of life ! Music, Poetry, and Painting — what 
would the world be without them ?” 

No one being prepared with an answer to this inquiry, there 
was a silence until Blanche Shortway said, holding out one of the 
sketches, “ Does not Miss Ida Kettering draw well, Amy?” 

“ Are these yours, Ida? How charming! You naughty child, 
you never told me !” 

Then Amy whispered a word to General Mullett, who said, lay- 
ing his hand on Hazel’s sleeve, “ Bertie, let me present you to 
Lady Lambton. Mr. Gilbert Hazel.” 

It must be recorded that Lady Lambton unhesitatingly sacri- 
ficed her delight in Art to the claims of good-breeding ; and that 


356 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


she took not the least notice of Ida’s drawings from the moment 
the stranger was introduced to her. The interview, however, was 
not wholly satisfactory to her. Mr. Hazel was a gentleman, was 
thoroughly at his ease, and his manner had a tone of courteous 
deference. Moreover, he was handsome, and looked — so Amy 
thought — romantic, although nothing could be simpler and less 
affected than his words and ways. But somehow he was not 
quite satisfactory. And at length Lady Lambton made up her 
mind that he was shy — which accounted for the suppression 
within his own bosom of all the flattering speeches he was doubt- 
less dying to utter. 

Meanwhile that illumination which had come to Fritz had 
helped him to find some explanation of Hazel’s puzzling air of 
repulsion towards himself. He remembered that Mrs. Armour 
was an inmate of the same boarding-house with Hazel, and he 
thought it more than probable that she had been spitting her 
venom on his (Fritz’s) connection with the Hugheses in her own 
genial and charitable spirit. No doubt she had been spitting her 
venom, he said to himself. But he would take means to admin- 
ister an antidote. He had, indeed, resolved to invite Hazel to 
accompany him to his own rooms that night on leaving the Ket- 
terings, when something occurred which changed the current of 
his thoughts, and drove conviviality and hospitality out of his 
head. 

It was understood that on these informal Friday evenings the 
party should break up early. It was not yet eleven o’clock when 
Lady Lambton’s carriage was announced, and General Mullett, 
who knew the ways of the house, at once took his leave. Hazel 
received a very cordial invitation from the host and hostess to 
come to them whenever he should be in town. And Fritz went 
down-stairs at the same time, intending to give his invitation 
while the men were putting on their coats in the hall. The 
ladies’ wraps had been left in a little room on the ground floor, 
and thither Olga and Ida accompanied Lady Lambton and her 
sister to see that the maid was in attendance, and to say some last 
words to Blanche Shortway, with whom Ida had struck up a 
friendship. 

Now Fritz, standing in the hall and waiting an opportunity 
to speak to Hazel, to whom Mrs. Kettering was making polite 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


357 


speeches — Fritz beheld Rhodonides walk in at the open door of 
the little room among the cloaks and shawls, and go up to Olga, 
and heard him say, in a low, confidential tone, “ Mr. Kettering 
has promised to see me to-morrow.” Whereupon Olga had nod- 
ded silently, and given him her hand. 

Fritz stood for a moment with the sensation of being stunned, 
as though he had received a violent blow. That Rhodonides, 
who saw Mr. Kettering frequently, should make a special appoint- 
ment with him, and should confidentially communicate that ap- 
pointment to Olga, admitted of but one interpretation. A sudden 
tumult of feeling surged up in Fritz’s heart, and he was torn by a 
dozen conflicting impulses that attacked him from all sides at 
once like a pack of wolves. He felt a wild desire to seize Rho- 
donides by the scruff of the neck and pitch him out of the house; 
to rush awav himself and be seen no more ; to confront Olga with 
vehement reproaches — he scarcely knew for what. But he simply 
stood there motionless among the little knot of people in the 
hall ; and then, in the general movement, amid the general “ good- 
nights,” he found himself outside the door, and walking along 
the pavement by himself. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

Fritz Hofmann was a man by no means prone to rage, but 
who, nevertheless, had been in rages ; when the fierce gleam of his 
blue eyes, and the expression about his mouth, were not pleasant 
to behold. It would never have occurred to him to use a dagger, 
or even a pistol. But there awoke within him a certain animal 
combativeness; a sense of thews and muscles which it would be 
delightful to employ in pounding and pummelling the object of 
his wrath. And there had been one or two occasions in his boy- 
hood and early youth when he had indulged himself in that 
delight, with its concomitant drawback of being pounded and 
pummelled himself; as to which, however, he cared very little. 

Some such Berserk fury had come upon him now. And yet 
all the while, in the very tempest and whirlwind of his passion, 


358 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


he was, in some latent way, conscious of being very much sur- 
prised at the violence of his own emotions. 

When he reached his lodgings, he paced up and down the sit- 
ting-room, speaking disjointed sentences out loud. It was mon- 
strous, horrible, a vile sacrifice to Mammon, the world, and the 
devil ! It is to be feared that Fritz heaped many vituperative 
epithets on his Uncle Philip and Aunt Gertude; and that he even 
flung a great many harsh and rough ones at Olga herself. False ! 
She had been false and treacherous! What though she had 
never expressly disclaimed all intention of accepting this rich 
young fool ? Had she not shown in a hundred ways, as intel- 
ligible as words, that she shared her cousin’s opinion of him ? 
And now — ! It was well, perhaps, that Perikles Rhodonides was 
not at that moment within reach of those powerful hands — clench- 
ing themselves as Fritz strode up and down the room. 

But the fit could not last very long at that point of ebulli- 
tion. He flung himself into an arm-chair beside his writing-table, 
and began by degrees to get his thoughts somewhat under con- 
trol. 

As to the significance of Rhodonides’ words to Olga he had no 
manner of doubt. What was he to do ? What could he do ? 
And the inquiry might naturally have presented itself, why was 
he called upon to do anything? What was it to him, as Olga 
had asked at Norwood, that his cousin should marry Rhodonides ? 
But he knew now, with startling certainty, what it was to him. 
He was furiously, passionately jealous. It was not merely that 
he held Rhodonides to be immeasurably inferior to Olga, but that 
the thought of her marrying any man was intolerable to him. 
He wanted Olga to be his own. That was the truth, and he had 
recognized it too late. 

Too late! Was it too late? No, it should not be too late! 
She was not yet married to that idiotic waxwork image of a man, 
and so long as she was unmarried there was hope. There must 
be hope. Fritz would have liked to have rushed back to his 
uncle’s house, and lay claim to Olga without more delay. For an 
instant he seriously contemplated returning to insist on speaking 
with Mrs. Kettering; but it was now the dead of night, and even 
in the torrent of his impatience it did occur to Fritz that to knock 
the family up for this purpose, after having just spent a long 


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359 


evening among them without dropping a hint of the matter, 
might subject him to a justifiable suspicion of lunacy. 

Then, as he sat over his breakfast the next morning, he began 
to feel some visitings of fear. Fritz was not much subject to 
anxious doubts, but he had never in his life longed for anything 
as he now longed to obtain Olga for his wife. He longed in- 
tensely, and, therefore, he also feared. With what assurance could 
he approach Mrs. Kettering now, at the eleventh hour? What 
words should he find to convince Olga herself, that, while he had 
been confiding to her the progress of his suit to another woman, 
it was really she whom he loved beyond all the daughters of Eve 
— she alone whom he coveted for his wife ? And then a little 
half-inarticulate question flitted through his mind : would he, in 
truth, have discovered, even now, how precious she was to him 
had he not beheld his jewel almost within the grasp of an- 
other ? 

But Fritz by no means proposed to follow out the workings of 
his soul with that philosophic introspection which he had em- 
ployed on a former occasion. He wanted to marry Olga — he 
loved her — he would make her happy, and no other man should 
take her from him without a struggle. Such was the elementary 
condition of Fritz Hofmann’s highly cultured mind when he set 
forth to go to the Ketterings’ house. 

It was but little after ten o’clock when he reached it. Rho- 
donides would surely not have his promised interview with Mr. 
Kettering until the afternoon ; for, ass though he were, he was 
assiduous at his business, and was to be found in his father’s 
counting-house in the city with punctual regularity. And there, 
too, Fritz would catch his uncle before he left home. Fritz would 
have arrived with the early milkman had he thought that likely 
to conduce to the success of his purpose. But he reflected that 
Uncle Philip would object to being disturbed in the midst of his 
morning ablutions ; and that, moreover, he would be more ame- 
nable to reason after the comforts of his breakfast than before. 

With a beating heart, but with unflinching courage, Fritz 
knocked at his uncle’s door. The servant who opened it believed 
Miss Kettering was in the drawing-room. Mrs. Kettering had 
not finished breakfast, and Miss Stringer and Miss Ida were in the 
morning-room. Should he announce Mr. Hofmann ? 


360 


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“ No ; I will just run up to the drawing-room. I have a word 
to say to Miss Kettering.” Then, as his foot was on the stairs, he 
turned and said, “ My uncle has not gone out yet, James?” 

“No, sir.” The man seemed about to add something more; 
but Fritz did not wait to hear it. He dashed up the stairs, 
paused one instant at the closed door of the drawing-room, and 
then, softly turning the handle, walked in. 

Olga was sitting there alone in a low lounging-chair with her 
back to the light. Her hands were folded in her lap, and held 
neither book nor work. At another time Fritz would have 
thought this odd. But he did not notice it now. She saw his 
face more distinctly than he saw hers ; and exclaimed, in a star- 
tled tone, “ Fritz ! At this hour ! Is anything the matter ?” 

“No. Uncle Philip will not slip out of the house while I am 
here, will he?” 

“Slip out — ! No. Fritz, you frighten me. I am sure there 
is something the matter !” cried the girl, rising from her chair. 

Fritz certainly did not look agreeable. His fair eyebrows were 
drawn together in a frown ; and he stared upon her with a stern 
intentness of which he was himself quite unconscious. 

“ There is nothing the matter — in the way you mean. Only 
I want to speak to Uncle Philip before he goes away to the 
city.” 

Olga sat down again. But she still looked at him uneasily. 
“ Papa is sure to come in here before he goes away. I am wait- 
ing for him.” 

“ Here ? Why are you waiting here, instead of down-stairs ?” 

“ Because papa is engaged. There is some one with him !” 

“ Some one with him !” cried Fritz, striding close up to her. 
“ Who is it? Not that accursed ass Rhodonides?” 

“ Fritz ! — what has come to you ? I beg you will not speak to 
me in that way !” 

“ Do you mean to say that Rhodonides is with my uncle now ?” 
he asked, between his set teeth. 

“ Yes, I do ; and what possesses you to make this display of 
violence I cannot conceive.” 

He dropped her wrist, which he had seized hold of in his eager- 
ness, and, stepping back a pace, folded his arms and glared at her 
ferociously. “ You will not pretend,” he said, still grinding out 


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361 


the words between his teeth, “ that you are unaware of the ob- 
ject of his visit?” 

“ I shall not pretend anything. Why should I ?” 

“ Why should you pretend anything!” repeated Fritz, in a 
bitterly ironical tone. Then, suddenly, he burst out, “ Gott in 
Himmel ! Olga, you are not going to do this shameful thing! 
You shall not. I’ll kill him first!” 

“Fritz! — are you out of your mind?” She was trembling 
now, and her color was changing quickly. 

“ No ; I am in my mind now, whatever I may have been be- 
fore ; and I tell you that you shall not marry this doll-faced idiot 
— unless, indeed, you will swear to me that you love him with all 
your heart and mind and soul ! If you can bring yourself to say 
that — ” 

“ For mercy’s sake, be quiet !” she whispered ; and the next 
moment the door opened and Mr. Kettering appeared, followed 
by Perikles Rhodonides. 

“Is that you, Fritz?” said his uncle. “What were you hold- 
ing forth about?” Then, turning to Rhodonides, he said, with 
even more than his accustomed suavity, “You won’t mind Fritz? 
He is one of us — a son of the house. I am happy to inform you, 
Olga, that our interview has been quite satisfactory. Of course, 
I tell him that I answer only for myself and mamma. For the 
rest — he must plead his own cause. Perikles says you have been 
so kind, and given him so much encouragement, that he wished 
you to know at once that he has my approbation. We are now 
going to ask mamma to receive us,” and Mr. Kettering withdrew 
his beaming face from the doorway. 

“ Dear Olga, I shall never forget your goodness,” began Rho- 
donides, advancing towards her with outstretched hand ; when 
Olga, with a sudden movement, threw herself between him and 
her cousin, and almost hustled the astonished young man towards 
the door. “ Yes — yes ; go ! I am so glad ! I hope it will be all 
right. Do go and speak to mamma ! and I will explain to Fritz. 
He — he doesn’t understand.” 

Then, suddenly shutting the door upon Rhodonides, she turned 
and stood with her back to it, confronting her cousin. “ Fritz ! 
— stay here !” she panted. 

“ Olga, leave that door. Child, what are you afraid of ? Do 


362 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


you seriously think I mean to murder anybody ? And do you 
suppose you can stop me from going out ?” 

“ I — I think I can — if you — if you will only listen. I can 
hardly get my breath. You frightened me so with your wicked, 
scowling looks! I don’t think I shall ever — ever forgive you. 
And as to Perikles — thank Heaven, his mind was too full of 
something else to look at you !” 

“ He shall look at me before I have done, and listen to me 
too !” 

“ Oh, Fritz, how can you — be sucli a goose?” 

Olga had sunk down by this time on an ottoman near the door, 
half laughing, half crying. 

“ I am in no mood for trifling,” answered her cousin, angrily. 
“ I swear to you, as I am a living man, that unless you can look 
me in the face, and say that that man who has just left the room 
is dear to you beyond any other being on earth — ” 

“ But I can’t.” 

“ No. I know that you cannot.” 

“ And, good gracious, why should I ?” 

“ Why should you? You can ask that question of me?” 

“ Of any one who is not a lunatic ! Good heavens, must one 
love one’s brother-in-law above all earthly beings?” 

“ One’s — what ?” shouted Fritz, seizing her by both hands. 
“ Say it again !” 

“ Well, if he marries Ida, and I think she will have him, he 
will be — ” 

But Olga got no further in her sentence, for Fritz lifted her up 
in his arms as if she had been a feather, and kissed her wildly. 

The next moment she had extricated herself from his embrace, 
and was looking at him flushed and indignant, with quivering lips 
and flashing eyes. “ Fritz,” she said, in a choking voice, “ recol- 
lect yourself ! I will not be insulted.” 

“ Insulted ! Olga, is true love an insult? The best — the truest 
— the whole love of my heart !” 

“ The whole love of your heart ! When you’re engaged to 
marry Barbara Copley !” 

“ But I’m not engaged ! She won’t have me ! I won’t have 
her ! We don’t care a straw for one another, only I’m very fond 
of her, and so is she of me. And she’s a dear, sweet, noble creat- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


363 


lire. 01), Olga — see, I’ll go down on my knees to you ! My 
darling, I want you to be my wife. I always loved you — yes, 
yes; I dare say you can’t quite understand it at this minute, but 
I can explain it all. I can indeed, dear, if you will only believe 
me ! Olga — do say a word ! Don’t cry ! Oh, what a wild beast 
I have been ! But it was all because I loved you so. Herzlieb- 
cken , will you forgive me? Can you ever — ever love me, Olga?” 

He was kneeling now beside the ottoman, where she sat with 
her face hidden among the cushions. Presently she lifted her 
head, and looked up for a moment, with her pretty eyes full of 
tears, but with a gleam in them that was neither of sorrow nor 
anger. 

“ Fritz,” she whispered, “I think — ” 

“ Yes, darling ?” 

“ I think I may be able some day to — ” 

“ May be able to — ” 

“ To love you — next to my brother-in-law !” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

It would be doing William Hughes great injustice to suppose 
that he had not often thought of Hazel since that day at Nor- 
wood when Barbara had given Fritz his dismissal. He had told 
Hazel that Barbara was — as he then fully believed — practically 
bound to marry Hofmann. And now, was it not his duty to ex- 
plain that such was no longer the case? He thought it was his 
duty. But he did not find it easy to decide in what way that 
duty should be performed. 

He had thought of writing to Hazel. But in what words 
should he put on paper the statement that, although his niece 
had indeed appeared for some weeks willing to marry Mr. Fred- 
erick Hofmann, she had now changed her mind? He did not, 
even now, fully comprehend all the course of Barbara’s feeling in 
this case. And if he did not, how could he be sure that his writ- 
ten words would not expose her to misapprehension ? His affec- 
tion for his niece was tenderly, even shyly, sensitive. 


864 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Besides, it almost seemed to him that the writing of such a let- 
ter would imply an encouragement to Hazel which he had no light 
to offer. Barbara never volunteered the mention of his name. 
When her uncle spoke of him, she would say some gentle, friend- 
ly word, hoping he would be content with his present occupation, 
expressing her certainty that he would do his duty in it loyally 
and zealously, as he had done his duty as a soldier, and so on. 
But she never asked why he did not come to see them. 

“Poor Hazel!” thought William, in his simplicity. “I’m 
afraid Barbara is less interested in him than she was.” 

However, when a few days had elapsed after their return from 
Norwood, and still Hazel made no sign, William Hughes resolved 
to go to the boarding-house near Red Lion Square, and speak 
with his friend face to face ; and he left his studio rather late one 
evening for that purpose. But at the boarding-house he was met 
by the announcement that Mr. Hazel was out ; that he seldom 
came in before bedtime ; and that Mrs. Pringle, the mistress of 
the house, could not at all say when he was likely to be found 
there. 

William could only beg this lady to tell him that Mr. Hughes 
had called, and would be glad to see him. This the landlady — a 
haggard, careworn woman, who looked as though the struggle to 
make both ends meet had been with her a physical tugging and 
straining, which had toughened her sinews and denuded her of 
superfluous flesh — promised to do; and he left the house. He 
left it only just in time to escape a fervent greeting from Miss 
Jenks, who, hearing Mrs. Pringle talking with a stranger in the 
passage, came out to see who it was. Miss Jenks was astonished, 
and somewhat indignant, to find that Mr. William Hughes had 
been there — actually standing under that roof — and had made no 
inquiry for her. On this point Mrs. Pringle’s evidence was per- 
fectly clear, and unshakable by the severest cross-examination. 
And at length Miss Jenks, looking round at the assembled board- 
ers in the drawing-room (for she had not conducted her conversa- 
tion with the slightest secrecy), said, solemnly, “ Then I’ll tell you 
what: he has forgotten my address, and thinks I live somewhere 
else !” The result of this utterance in arousing the baleful sar- 
casm of Miss Towzer, the eager boarder, need not be here set 
down. But the reader is entreated to believe that Miss Jenks 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


365 


got the best of the encounter. In a war of wits, as in a game of 
chess, superior sharpness is only available so long as your adver- 
sary observes the rules of the game. But Miss Jenks, when in 
danger of checkmate, simply kicked over the board. 

It was a raw, foggy night, and in spite of his old and well-tried 
friend, the shepherd’s plaid, William Hughes suffered from the 
cold and damp. The next day, and for many successive days, he 
was confined to the house with a severe attack of asthma, durino* 
which Larcher was almost triumphant in having him all to herself. 
Miss Hughes was away, Miss Barbara was obliged to go out to 
her daily teaching, and there was no one to check Larcher in her 
lavish self-devotion. The old woman greatly enjoyed waiting 
hand and foot on “Master William,” and making a score of un- 
necessary journeys from her subterranean kitchen every day to 
see that he lacked nothing. 

Although Miss Copley had dismissed one lover, and another 
kept aloof, there was one manly bosom palpitating with the re- 
solve to have done with doubts and delay, and to make her an 
offer of marriage on a certain fixed day. 

Mortimer Hopkins’s hopes, which had been burning very low, 
suddenly flickered up at the unexpected rumor, communicated to 
him by his friends Green and Toller, that Mr. Frederick Hofmann 
was to marry a daughter of Kettering, of Lombard Street. At 
first Mortimer refused to believe the report, but Messieurs Green 
and Toller assured him that the marriage was “as good as set- 
tled;” adding that “their eldest son” was to have the other sis- 
ter, and that everybody at “ their shop ” — meaning, of course, the 
house of the Greek merchants, carried on under the style and title 
of Rhodonides, Trikos, and Co. — knew all about it. 

The belief that Hofmann was no longer his rival was certainly 
cheering to Mortimer Hopkins. His ignorance and his vanity 
were great, but they were not great enough to disguise from him 
the fact that Mr. Hofmann’s social position was superior to his 
own. There was, however, no reason why it should always be so. 
Hofmann’s family were merchants, and Mortimer was engaged in 
a merchant’s office, and might rise to be a leading partner in an 
equally important firm. The difference between himself and Hof- 
mann on that score presented itself to his mind as merely the dif- 
ference between subaltern and commanding officer, and not as the 


366 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


difference between private and subaltern. But where he felt Hof- 
mann had had an immeasurable advantage over him was in the 
opportunities enjoyed by the former of appearing in a favorable 
light in Miss Copley’s eyes. 

Mortimer reflected that Miss Copley had hitherto had no chance 
of discovering that he had a soul above the ordinary and common- 
place — a soul capable of appreciating Poetry and Art ! Of course 
this superior soul was not used in the work of his every-day business. 
Something spiritually second-best scored for that purpose. No 
man having a Damascus scimitar, inlaid with fine gold by some 
cunning artificer, would employ it to chop wood or carve mutton. 
No man — so Mortimer Hopkins believed — could thrive at Baikie 
& Wiggetts’s who should attempt to conduct his business by the 
lofty moral standard, or strain after the high ideals, held up in the 
“ Idylls of the King.” Poetry, to Mortimer’s thinking, was valu- 
able, not as the sunlight is valuable, but as the gaslights in a thea- 
tre are valuable, for glorifying tinsel that would make but a sorry 
show by day. 

Now Fritz Hofmann, enjoying abundant leisure, had been able 
to exhibit himself under the most becoming illumination, and to 
flourish his Damascus scimitar, while other men were toiling with 
homely tools. But if Fritz Hofmann were really withdrawn from 
the competition — well, that was undoubtedly encouraging. 

It has been said that Mortimer had fixed on a certain day for 
making Miss Copley an offer of his hand and heart. He had 
fixed on a certain Saturday afternoon for that purpose; having 
learned from Mrs. Green enough of the present state of the 
Hugheses’ household to anticipate that he would then find the 
young lady alone. Mr. Hughes was confined to his own cham- 
ber by asthma, and Miss Hughes with Claude was still absent 
from home. Barbara returned from her teaching between four 
and five o’clock. At five, then, he would present himself before 
her, and set his fate upon the hazard of the die. 

If the hairdresser to whom was intrusted the curling of Morti- 
mer’s locks on this occasion did not guess the errand he was bound 
on, that skilful practitioner must have found it unusually difficult 
to preserve the amiable alacrity by which his craft is generally 
distinguished. Nor scarcely anything but the anxiety of a lover 
would have excused the young man’s fidgety demeanor under 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


367 


the combs and tongs. But the hairdresser, who was an old ac- 
quaintance of Mortimer’s, probably had his suspicions as to the 
state of the case ; and he endeavored to soothe his customer’s 
nerves by a copious flow of flattery and pomatum. The latter 
passed unnoticed in the agitation of the moment ; but the former 
was not without effect. 

“I’m looking a little pale, ain’t I, Gubbins?” said Mortimer, 
regarding himself in the glass. 

“ Not partic’lar, sir. I don’t know that I ever succeeded better 
with your ’air, sir. It’s truly classical. But, dear me, with such 
a profile as yours, what can the ’air be but classical ? A work’us’ 
crop, sir, couldn’t destroy the outlines. But, of course, the Am- 
brosian curls, as the poet says, do give a finish. Let me send you 
’ome one pot, sir; it’s a very elegant preparation. Thank you. 
Gently with the curls on the forehead ! Don’t jam your ’at too 
’ard down on your ’ead !” 

Mortimer had taken great pains with his attire. He wore the 
same glossy suit of mourning which had been bought for the read- 
ing of Chris Dalton’s will ; but its sombreness was relieved by the 
substitution of a lilac tie for a black one, and by pale lavender 
gloves. A white camellia adorned his button-hole, and the big 
imitation-pearl pin was conspicuous on his cravat. 

He did not intend to walk to his destination ; but he went on 
foot to a certain confectioner’s shop in Oxford Street, not far from 
the hairdresser’s, and there drank a small bottle of some efferves- 
cent beverage which was labelled, and paid for, as champagne. 
And then, jumping into a cab, he felt like one who has pushed off 
from land and embarked upon the perilous deep. 

Never, as it seemed to him, had mortal cab-horse devoured the 
space between the middle of Oxford Street and the Edgeware 
Road as did the animal behind which he was now seated. They 
were absolutely in the Harrow Road, and within a few yards of 
the street he was bound for, before he had time to collect his 
thoughts. 

He hurriedly tried to recollect all the advantages he had to 
offer, and to fortify himself by the reflection that a young lady’s 
“No” was not necessarily final, and that she could hardly be ex- 
pected to yield at the first summons. But perhaps the thought 
that chiefly supported him, as he paid the cabman with a trern- 


368 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


bling hand, was that he had told no one of his intention for that 
special afternoon, and might, therefore, postpone his proposal al- 
together, without incurring the contempt of his friends. 

A bell tinkled somewhere ; so he must have pulled it. An old 
woman in a stiff cap, and with manners to match, opened the street 
door, and afterwards admitted him to the little front sitting-room, 
so he must have asked for Miss Copley. But he was not distinct- 
ly conscious of what he was doing and saying ; and to find the 
parlor empty was like a reprieve from imminent execution. 

This relief, however, did not last long. He had barely had time 
to catch a glimpse of himself in the old-fashioned convex mirror 
above the mantelpiece, when Barbara came into the room. 

“Did you wish to speak with me?” she asked, after bowing in 
acknowledgment of his salutation. And there was a chill surprise 
in her tone that seemed to freeze him. 

“ How do you do, Miss Copley ? I’m extremely glad — I mean 
very sorry — very sorry to hear that Mr. Hughes is unfortunately 
non compos — no ; that’s not it ; I can't think of the word — on the 
sick list, you know. So I thought I would just — just step round 
and inquire.” 

“ Thank you. My uncle is much better.” 

She remained standing ; and of course Mortimer had no choice 
but to stand also. 

“ I thought I would inquire at the same time for Copley — Mr. 
Copley. Your brother and me were on terms of intimacy, you 
know ; so I — I hope you don’t consider it an intrusion.” 

“ My brother has benefited by the change of air. I will tell him 
that you were good enough to ask for him.” 

Barbara could not help some vague apprehensions and suspi- 
cions as to the object of his visit. Why had he dressed himself 
in that extraordinary fashion ? And why did he diffuse so over- 
powering a fragrance of hair-oil? Perhaps he might be going 
somewhere to spend the evening. She remembered the conversa- 
zione at Mrs. Green’s, and thought it possible. 

“ Miss Copley,” he began, suddenly, making a desperate plunge, 
“ I hope you will understand that in what I am going to say, I 
have no interested motives. I won’t go so far as to say that I 
never have any interested motives, because, in point of fact, I don’t 
see how a man is to get on without ’em. But there are in the 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


369 


human soul heights and— and depths, to which interested motives 
don’t apply.” 

“ I am quite sure you have no interested motives,” she said, 
hastily. “ My uncle will be much obliged for your inquiries, and, 
if you will excuse me, I think I must now wish you good even- 
mg.” 

“ Hold yet a moment ! Miss Copley, I have come hither sole- 
ly to seek you — I took a cab on purpose — and I hope you will 
not refuse to listen to what I have to say. I put it to you — to 
you who shineth as a star of high-mindedness above the common 
herd of worldlings — whether I haven’t some respectful right to a 
hearing !” 

“ I really think it would be better that our interview should 
end here, Mr. Hopkins,” answered Barbara, moving towards the 
door. 

“ Hold yet another moment ! Miss Copley, I will out with it 
at once, if you will vouchsafe me but a moment. I lay my hand 
and heart at your feet. There, I am aware that there is an ab- 
ruptness in my expressions, but — but what can a fellow do when 
he’s driven like this ?” 

“ I deeply regret, Mr. Hopkins, that you would not allow me 
to spare you and myself the utterance of what is painful. But 
since you have insisted on a plain answer — ” 

“ Don’t speak hastily, I beg and beseech you. If you were to 
tell me to come again this day month, or this day six months — ” 

“ Pray understand that this is quite useless.” 

“ This isn’t a sudden fancy on my part, Miss Copley. What- 
ever may be the case w r ith others, I have not been lured by hopes 
of your wealth — ” 

“ My wealth !” echoed Barbara, so astonished that she paused 
with her hand on the lock of the door, and turned to look at him. 
“ You are laboring under some extraordinary misapprehension. I 
am very poor !” 

“ Individually, perhaps ; but it’s very well known that there’s a 
quarter of a million coming to the family in a month or two.” 

Barbara flushed crimson, and tears of painful indignation rose 
to her eyes. 

“ Mr. Hopkins,” she said, “ it may be well that I should take 
this opportunity of informing you that — for private reasons — 
24 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


370 

neither my uncle, Mr. Hughes, nor myself intend to profit in the 
smallest degree by your great-uncle’s will.” And with a haughty 
inclination of the head, she was about to leave the room, when 
Mortimer threw himself on his knees before her. 

“Miss Copley,” he cried; “upon my soul, I ain’t going to 
make love to you ! But do just, in pity, say that you don’t be- 
lieve my motives are interested ! Even supposing you can never 
requite my ado — No, upon my soul I won’t ! But do let me 
carry to the grave the comfort of knowing that you believe my 
motives are not interested !” 

“Pray get up, sir. Yes, I do believe it; and now I must ask 
you as a favor to go away immediately.” 

Mortimer rose from his knees — all the more readily, perhaps, 
because he had heard the door-bell ring and Larcher’s step in the 
passage. He then took off his lavender gloves — one of which he 
had split from top to bottom in the energy of his appeal — and 
chucked them, with a sort of quiet desperation, into the crown of 
his hat. “ Miss Copley,” he said, in an artificially deep voice 
(founded, to say the truth, on Mr. Coney’s Shakespearian assump- 
tions), “ I thank you; and I shall obey.” 

At this moment Larcher looked into the room, holding out a 
card. “ This gentleman has called to ask for master,” she said, 
“ and would like to see him. But I must go up first and ask if 
master feels equal to it.” 

“ Ask the gentleman to walk in and wait here,” said Barbara. 
She supposed the visitor to be some picture-dealer, until she took 
the card in her hand and read the name on it. 

Mortimer Hopkins had meanwhile been hurriedly unfastening 
the camellia from his button-hole, and, when he looked up again, 
something in Barbara’s face gave him a curious pang, and he 
turned round involuntarily to see who was behind him. He saw 
a tall man, a stranger to him, standing in the doorway. 

“ Miss Copley,” said Mortimer, with a little break in the artifi- 
cial tragedy voice, “ I will no longer intrude. But ere I go you 
will perhaps allow me to leave this flower on your table — as a last 
offering on Friendship’s shrine.” 

And he laid the camellia close to Barbara’s work-basket. 

Grotesque though his words were, there was something manly 
and genuine in the spirit that dictated them ; and Barbara’s heart 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


371 


was touched. She took up the flower gently and held it in her 
hand as she said, “ Good-by, Mr. Hopkins.” 

And the next minute he was gone. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

“ Master will be happy to see you, sir,” said Larcher. 

“ Oh, thank you. I will go up to him immediately. But as I 
am here, I will first say ‘ good-by ’ to Miss Copley.” 

“ Yes, sir. Perhaps you will ring when — ” 

“ I don’t think I need trouble you, Mrs. Larcher. I can find 
my way up-stairs.” 

All this was said just outside the parlor, while Hopkins was 
letting himself out at the street door. Larcher’s old-fashioned 
respect for the family she served constrained her to show civility 
to whomsoever they chose to admit into their house. But she 
did not think it incumbent on her to pay any peculiar attentions 
to Mr. Mortimer Hopkins. Larcher had understood at a glance 
the meaning of the lilac tie, and the camellia in the button-hole, 
and all the rest. And she was unspeakably indignant at such 
presumption. 

“ The audacity of him daring to think of Miss Barbara !” she 
muttered to herself. “A little Cockney shopboy, making the 
whole house reek with his nasty bear’s grease !” 

Then she ushered the visitor, who was Gilbert Hazel, into the 
parlor, and withdrew. 

“ I have come to say ‘ good-by,’ Miss Copley,” he said. 

“ Good-by ! Are you going away ?” 

“ Yes ; I must be back in Staffordshire the day after to-morrow. 
And I may not have an opportunity of coming here again.” 

“Won’t you sit down?” said Barbara, in her sweet, low voice. 
And he took a chair opposite to her. 

“ I was very sorry to hear that Hughes had been at the trouble 
of calling at my place without finding me. They did not tell me 
until this afternoon. The fact is, there is an officious, meddling 
woman there, a certain — oh, but you have heard of her ! I re- 


372 


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member — Miss Jenks. Well, Miss Jenks volunteered to give me 
your uncle’s message, and, between her and the landlady, it only 
reached me to-day.” 

“Uncle William will be very glad to see you,” said Barbara. 
She had seated herself near the little work-table, and was toying 
with the flower in her hand. 

“ I understand. I will go to him immediately. Don’t grudge 
me these few moments, Miss Copley, they will be the last.” 

Barbara suddenly turned her head aside; and, although she 
made a gallant struggle to speak, there ensued a perceptible pause 
before she answered in a tone of soft reproach, 

“ Pray do not think I mean that, Mr. Hazel !” 

“Forgive me. I know you are too kind and gentle to grudge 
me a farewell word. But when a man is in pain, it is hard for 
him to be quite reasonable. But I did not come here intending to 
say that, or anything like that. I wanted, if you will allow me 
to take the privilege of a friend who regards you very sincerely, 
and to offer my very best wishes for your future happiness.” 

“ Thank you,” murmured Barbara, faintly, and without looking 
at him. 

“ Well,” he said, after a silence that seemed long to both of them, 
although, in truth, it lasted less than a minute, “the good-by 
must be spoken. I knew it would be bitter; but I did not know 
how bitter. But I don’t want to distress you. Good-by. God 
bless you ! Barbara /” 

The last exclamation was uttered with sudden, breathless, eager 
vehemence, as, advancing with outstretched hand, he caught a 
glimpse of her face, that was still partly averted from him. “ Look 
at me, Barbara !” 

She slowly turned her head and looked at him for an in- 
stant. 

“ Oh ! Thank God !” he cried. 

And the next moment he held her in his arms, and his lips were 
pressed to the soft brown hair that lay against his breast. 

“ Master’s rung to know whether the gentleman understood that 
he would be happy to see him,” said Larcher, peeping into the 
room about half an hour later. 

Barbara was seated close beside her lover, tie held her hand, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


373 


and they were talking together earnestly. They did not start, 
nor move apart suddenly. But Barbara rose up quietly and put 
her arms around the old servant’s neck. “Oh, Larcher, dear,” 
she said, “ you knew my mother.” And then she burst into tears, 
and sobbed out, “ I am so happy, Larcher !” 

The old woman folded her to her breast, soothing and patting 
her with her hand as though she had been a baby, while she look- 
ed solemnly at Hazel. 

“The Lord bless you, sir, and prosper you according as you 
love and value her !” she said. 

“ Amen to that, my good friend, from the bottom of my heart!” 
answered Hazel. 

“ I have known her ever since she was a little toddling baby. 
There ain’t no guile in her, nor yet no selfishness. You can’t love 
her too well, nor think of her too high. Her price is far above 
rubies, Mr. Hazel — far above rubies !” 

And then Larcher lifted up a corner of her apron and wiped 
her eyes with it. 

“ Shake hands, Mrs. Larcher,” said Hazel, giving her toil- 
hardened hand a hearty squeeze. “ I’m poor in a great many 
things, but as to loving her — Well, I don’t think you will have 
to complain of me on that score.” 

“God bless you, sir! No, I don’t think I shall,” answered 
Larcher, looking at him keenly, and with a little smile. 

“ Why, do you know that I have been loving her day and night, 
sleeping and waking, for the last two years?” 

“ Well, sir, you can’t do better than walk in the same all the 
days of your life. You’ll forgive an old woman’s freedom, won’t 
you, sir? But what answer am I to take up to master?” 

Barbara lifted her head from the faithful shoulder on which it 
had been nestling, and hastily declared that she would go to him 
herself at once. No one must speak to Uncle William before she 
did. And then Larcher withdrew to the kitchen to prepare 
“ Master William’s ” tea and toast, and to think, with a mixture 
of tenderness and pride, and sorrow and hope and exultation of 
the new life that lay before her idolized Miss Barbara. 

“ May I not come with you ?” said Hazel. 

“ No, please ; not yet. Let me tell him first by myself,” said 
Barbara, raising her eyes pleadingly to her lover’s face. 


374 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


“ And when may I come ?” asked Hazel, looking down into 
their inmost depths. 

“ In a few minutes. I will call you.” 

“And what will you call me? Do you know you have not 
once let me hear you say my name yet.” 

“ Gilbert,” she said, shyly. 

“ At home they used to call me Bertie.” 

“ I will say that if you please ; but I like Gilbert best.” 

“ Do you ? Why ?” 

“ Because — because that is the name I have always given you 
in my thoughts and prayers — Gilbert Hazel.” 

He held her two little hands between his own, looking at her 
with a devout earnestness. “ That you should love me, Barbara,” 
he said, “seems a kind of miracle — as though the sun were to 
begin shining in the middle of an Arctic winter. What a miser- 
able brute I was !” 

Then Barbara went up-stairs, where William Hughes was wait- 
ing in wondering impatience. 

Since his illness he had occupied Aunt Judith’s room, because 
of the possibility of having a fire there. He was sitting in the 
arm-chair, wrapped in a threadbare old summer overcoat — he did 
not possess a dressing-gown — and with the shepherd’s plaid over 
his knees. Poor and shabby was every garment that belonged to 
him ; but the glimpses of linen at his throat and wrists were fresh 
and spotless, and the room was exquisitely neat and airy. Larcher 
had taken good heed of all that. 

“Barbara, what on earth has become of Hazel?” he began, 
impetuously. “ I hope he has not gone away without seeing me? 
I wish particularly to speak with him.” 

“ He is coming directly.” 

“Coming directly ! Why the dickens didn’t he come before?” 

Barbara knelt down beside the arm-chair, and looked up into 
her uncle’s face. 

“What !” exclaimed William, laying his hand upon her head, 
and gently pressing it back so as to see her face more completely. 
“ Has he told you ?” 

“Yes, Uncle William; and I love him very dearly.” 

William, still keeping one hand upon her head, covered his 
eyes with the other, and leaned back in the chair. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


375 


“But, Uncle William,” Barbara went on, in a trembling voice, 
“ although I do love him dearly — I must own it, because it is the 
truth — I would not marry him if I did not hope — and believe — 
that it woud make you happy too. He knows that. I have told 
him so.” 

“ That would be very wrong, Barbara,” murmured William, 
huskily. 

“ No ! Not in this case. We may leave father and mother — 
but father and mother have each other — have other children — 
have at least some happy life behind them. But you — Let me 
say something of what is in my heart, only this once. I know 
what your life has been. Let me tell you this one time that your 
nobleness has not been lost on me. If there is anything good in 
me — All that he loves best in me is your doing. Let me say 
only this once how I love you, and honor you, and bless you on 
my knees for all your goodness ! — my dear ! my dear!” 

It was characteristic of them both that William was the first to 
break the hush that fell upon them after a while, by bidding Bar- 
bara remember that Hazel was waiting. He lifted her tear-stained 
face from his breast, and smoothed her hair down softly with his 
hands, and bade her go and call her lover. “ He has been very 
patient — and very good, to let me have these precious minutes all 
to myself. But we must not be selfish — I mean I must not be 
selfish, Barbara.” 

When Hazel came, the two men silently grasped each other’s 
hands. Neither was apt to make speeches about his deeper feel- 
ings; but they understood one another very well. 

“ It is a poor marriage for her,” said Hazel, standing beside 
Hughes’s chair when Barbara had left the room. “ God knows I 
never much cared for money on my own account. But I do hanker 
after a few of the thousands my poor dad dropped in those ill- 
starred speculations, for her sake.” 

“She will never hanker after them.” 

“ She ! No ; God bless her ! She’s an angel. But this is a 
rough world for angels. And poverty makes it rougher.” 

“ I don’t know,” said William, musingly. “ After all, what is 
poverty ? A man may be happy with very little money, provided 
he does not covet his neighbor’s goods. And no amount of money 


376 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


will make him happy if he does !” Then, after a pause, he added, 
“ I think there’s only one thing a poor man need specially pray to 
be delivered from more than a rich one. I said just now, ‘ What 
is poverty ?’ Debt is poverty. Debt is an octopus that will pull 
down the strongest swimmer.” 

“ I don’t owe sixpence in the world,” said Hazel. 

And then Barbara returned with the proposal that Uncle Will- 
iam should come down-stairs, and have tea with them. The parlor 
was very warm ; he could be well wrapped up ; could he not man- 
age it? 

“ Of course I can manage it. But Larcher won’t let me,” an- 
swered William, smiling and lifting his eyebrows. But it appeared 
that Larcher had been won over, and had consented to allow her 
patient to come down-stairs, due precautions being taken. And 
Larcher, moreover, was reported to be then engaged in cutting 
sundry rashers of bacon, and rounds of bread to be converted into 
toast ; and to be in a state of great bustle and importance. 

Then Hazel insisted on going down to the kitchen to help in 
the preparations; and on carrying up-stairs the big kettle — which 
had been shoved aside to make room for the frying-pan — to be 
kept hot on the parlor fire, in spite of the old servant’s polite pro- 
tests. “ Oh, dear me, sir, that ain’t work for the likes of you ! 
Don’t you be tiring yourself now, Mr. Hazel,” and so on. 

“ My dear soul, I assure you that when I was in the army I went 
through even more tremendous experiences than carrying a kettle! 
You’ve no idea what hardships we endured in our country’s ser- 
vice. But you must make an extra round of toast to support 
me, you know. I shall be terribly exhausted when I’ve done,” 
said Hazel, swinging the big black kettle off the fire with one 
hand, and walking away with it. 

Whereupon Larcher turned with a beaming face to Miss Bar- 
bara, and imparted her opinion that Mr. Hazel was the “ pleasant- 
spokenest ” gentleman she had ever come across. “ And,” she 
added, shrewdly, “ I think you can tell real gentlefolks quicker by 
their way of joking than a’most anything else.” 

One anxiety which would otherwise have preyed on William 
Hughes, Barbara’s perfect sympathy with and understanding of 
his character, had enabled her to anticipate and remove. 

During that half-hour’s talk with Hazel she had spoken of Dal- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


377 


ton’s will, and had delicately touched on the reasons which made 
the bequest to Claude equally painful to her uncle. And she had 
gone on to say that her uncle had irrevocably determined to accept 
no share, directly or indirectly, in Dalton’s wealth ; and that she, 
fully sharing his feeling, had made a similar resolve for herself. 
“ I thought it right to tell you this at once,” she said, timidly, 
“ because you know that I am penniless, and I might, perhaps — 
who can say ? — some day be rich. And, perhaps, you might think 
it overstrained and foolish to refuse. But you cannot know — I 
think no one can fully realize — what my uncle feels about it. To 
him it would be like taking the price cf his father’s cruel death — 
and of all the misery and ruin. You would not wish me to take 
any part of that money — would you ?” 

“ God forbid !” 

“And you do not think my uncle is to blame?” 

“To blame! Is a man to blame for renouncing the devil? I 
can understand that the thought of it fills him with horror !” 

Enough of this she had repeated to her uncle to relieve his 
mind of any apprehension ; and she had assured him that Gilbert 
would not touch upon the subject. But she did not say what had 
sent a thrill of pride and joy to the very core of her heart ; that 
of all the persons whom she had heard allude to Dalton’s will, Gil- 
bert Hazel alone had accepted her uncle’s repudiation of the money 
as being natural and inevitable. Even Fritz Hofmann — generous 
and disinterested as he was — had dropped a word about its being 
possible to take a morbidly sensitive view of things. But Gilbert 
— ah, there was none like him ! None ! 

They were happy as they sat round the humble little table. 
There was something boyish in Hazel’s gayety. Hitherto neither 
Barbara nor her uncle had seen him wholly free from a little shade 
of sadness. But now his joy seemed to bubble up at every mo- 
ment like a fountain sparkling in the sun. Only now and then, 
when Barbara’s face was turned away, he would look at her with 
a kind of wondering adoration, and with a moisture in his eyes. 

He must return to Staffordshire on Monday ; but he would not 
allow that thought to damp his spirits. This would be so differ- 
ent a parting from the parting two years ago at Thornfield Farm ! 
And, besides, was there not all to-morrow ? One whole long day 
to be spent with Barbara ! 


378 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


But before Hazel went away, and after William — who was 
obliged to own himself tired with the day’s emotions — had gone 
to his rooms, there came a letter for Barbara from Aunt Judith. 
Claude had not been so well for some days past, and yesterday he 
had had a fainting-fit, followed by great exhaustion. Barbara 
was not to alarm her uncle. They had called in a doctor, and 
Claude was now better; but it was plain that Aunt Judith was 
greatly shaken and alarmed. 

Barbara gave the letter into Hazel’s hand, and when he had 
read it, he said at once, 

“You wish to go to Norwood, dearest?” 

“Yes; I think it is my duty to go.” 

“ I will take you down there. If it will trouble Miss Hughes 
to see me, I can — oh, I can prowl about somewhere until it is time 
to bring you home again.” 

She put her two hands on his shoulders and looked up at him. 

“You are good,” she said, simply. 

“Of course! I am the most self-sacrificing of men. How 
many fellows would consent to escort you to Norwood when they 
might have the privilege of spending the whole day near Miss 
Jenks?” 

“ You are laughing, Gilbert ; but I am not to be laughed out of 
my gratitude.” 

“ If I laugh, I think it is chiefly that I may not cry. Think 
of you looking up at me with those eyes and talking of grati- 
tude !” 

“ You must suggest it to Uncle William to-morrow, as if it were 
your own idea to go to Norwood. It will seem horribly selfish 
to leave him — not that he will think so. Poor Claude ! And 
poor dear Aunt Judith! You don’t think — do you think these 
fainting-fits are very dangerous, Gilbert ?” 

He reassured her as well as he could ; but as he walked home 
through the streets the thought once or twice pierced those golden 
visions which wrapped him round, that the sharks who were 
swimming after Chris Dalton’s legacy might come in for their 
feast sooner than they anticipated. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


379 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

The month of February had been unusually inclement; but 
just towards its close milder weather set in; and Claude Copley, 
who had been for three weeks confined not only to the house, but 
to one room, which was kept as far as possible at an even temper- 
ature, began to dream of going out into the air again. 

He had been very ill ; but he had not much believed in his own 
illness. At any rate, he had made light of Aunt Judith’s appre- 
hensions, and had called the doctor an old coddle. Nevertheless, 
he had not flagrantly transgressed any of the doctor’s rules; and 
he had been exacting in his demands that all the measures for the 
warming and ventilating of his room should be accurately carried 
out. He was ruthless in giving trouble to the landlady and her 
servants. And if Aunt Judith hinted a remonstrance, he would 
haughtily reply that they were paid ! And would add that if a 
pound or two more were needed to make things go smooth, the 
pound or two need not be grudged. 

It was, in truth, one of poor Judith’s hardest trials that Claude 
went on behaving, more and more, as though he were already pos- 
sessed of large wealth, and insisted on being supplied with all kinds 
of luxuries. 

Let it be said for him that he wished Aunt Judith to share in 
these ; and was angry and irritated when she refused to order ex- 
pensive wines for her own drinking, and to hire an attendant to 
wait upon her personally. When he was at the worst, he was too 
weak, and too much absorbed with his own sensations, to think 
about such matters. But when he began to grow better, the 
struggle became a daily misery to the poor old woman. But she 
bore it bravely, sharing the worst part of her troubles with no 
one, and tending Claude with the patient, inexhaustible love of a 
mother. 

And some comfort had come to her from the news of Barbara’s 
happiness. She would have been better pleased could Barbara 


380 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


have accepted Fritz Hofmann. But Barbara had given her heart 
to this other man ; and William had a warm regard for him ; and 
it was much to know that their dear girl would have a loving pro- 
tector. And when she saw him, Aunt Judith surrendered her last 
regret, and stanchly declared that he was worthy of the wife 
whom he had won. 

Hazel was not allowed to prowl about by himself until it should 
be time to take Barbara back to London, on that day when they 
went down to Norwood together. Aunt Judith and he had a long 
conversation while Barbara was seated beside her brother’s bed. 
Claude was at that time too weak to see a stranger; but Barbara, 
speaking in her gentle voice, and holding his hand, had told him 
of her engagement. And he had taken the announcement better 
than she had anticipated. 

There was, of course, no reason why he should not take it well. 
But Claude had been very capricious in his behavior to his sister 
of late, and had kept up a smouldering resentment against her at- 
titude respecting Dalton’s will. 

“ He’s of a very good family, isn’t he, Barbara?” he said. 

“His grandfather was a country gentleman of considerable prop- 
erty, I believe. His father was a clergyman. But I do not know 
much of his family. He has not spoken to me about his ances- 
tors; perhaps, because I have none to boast of in return,” said 
Barbara, smiling. 

But Claude did not smile. On the contrary, he gave a black 
frown, and drew his hand pettishly away from hers. 

“ That’s all rot and humbug,” he said. “ What’s the good of 
that mock humility ? You’ve better blood in your veins than his, 
I’ll lay odds — ancient Welsh blood.” 

Barbara did not answer ; but she raised his pillow a little, and 
gently drew a warm coverlet closer round his shoulders. 

After a pause, he put out his thin, weak hand again, and laid it 
in his sister’s. 

“ It is a pity,” he said, “ that Hazel should have left the army.” 

“ Why, dear ?” 

“ Because you’d make a very good figure as the wife of an of- 
ficial swell. Deuced few of them are as ladylike. General Sir 
Gilbert Hazel, K.C.B., Governor of Jellyjampore ! That sounds 
very well.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


381 


Barbara laughed. 

“Very well, indeed,” she answered. “But Lieutenant Gilbert 
Hazel, with fifty pounds a year over and above his pay, is not 
quite so grand.” 

“ No,” returned Claude, quickly. “ But that would be all al- 
tered when he married my sister.” 

Barbara had been able, on the whole, to carry back a fairly re- 
assuring account of Claude to her uncle. She by no means fully 
understood how ill her brother was. But Aunt Judith spoke to 
Hazel far more openly and less hopefully than she had spoken to 
Barbara. 

“You see, I want her to cheer up William,” said Aunt Judith; 
“ and she could not do that if she were despondent herself. Be- 
sides, I don’t want to frighten or depress her either, poor dear 
child. But, you see, with you I take the privilege of an affec- 
tionate relative, by immediately laying some of my troubles on 
your shoulders.” 

“ I wish you could in truth lay some of them on my shoulders, 
for I’m afraid you have to carry a heavy weight of care.” 

“Oh, I have many mercies; and many comforts. You are a 
comfort; for I do believe you love my Barbara as she deserves to 
be loved. And I have another dear friend, who loves her, too, 
only not exactly as you do ! I hope that some day you will know 
Fritz Hofmann. Oh ! you have met him, then ? Well, when you 
see him again, ask him why he has deserted me; and tell him that 
I hear I have a rival, and am very jealous!” 

Brave old Aunt Judith! One of her greatest difficulties, her 
most poignant anxieties, was how to pay back to Fritz Hofmann 
that little roll of bank-notes that he had sent her. She knew well 
that he would think no more of them ; and that not in his inner- 
most thoughts would he do her any injustice, or esteem her the 
less, because she had taken his help for her sick boy. But she 
had the old-fashioned, honest, bourgeois pride, to which debt is a 
deep humiliation. And the debt was growing. And she could 
not venture to leave Norwood. The physician whom she had 
employed there positively forbade his patient being taken back to 
town. And he hinted that in a week or two it might be well to 
try some sheltered spot on the Riviera. 

But still Judith Hughes went bravely on, doing the task of each 


382 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


day as it arose, not daring to look forward beyond it. Claude had 
immediate daily need of her. That need sustained her — as the 
need of the sick and the sorry and the helpless sustains so many 
loving women’s hearts, that, for themselves, would feel the strains 
too hard, the burden too heavy, to be borne. And this Februa- 
ry wore itself away, and the month of March dawned wild and 
stormy, with flying gleams of sunshine. 

By this time Mr. and Mrs. Kettering had settled down into a 
satisfied acceptance of their two sons -in -law elect. But they 
had not done so quite at first — at least, not with equal satis- 
faction as regarded both of themselves, and both of the sons-in- 
law. 

Mr. Kettering had a little demurred to Fritz’s unexpected and, 
as it seemed to him, rash and unconsidered declaration of love for 
his cousin ; and Mrs. Kettering had been disappointed that Rliodon- 
ides did not propose for Olga. Mrs. Kettering disliked surprises, 
and deviations from the line of events which she had made up her 
mind to consider probable. She had, however, the comfort of re- 
minding her husband and Sally Stringer how she — Gertrude — had 
all along been sure that Fritz would not be so silly as to marry 
Miss Copley ; and in a long letter that she wrote to Augusta Hof- 
mann about the young people’s betrothal, this point was dwelt on 
with much complacency. 

Both parents had been doubtful as to what Ida’s answer would 
be to her suitor’s proposal, and had warned him that they would 
use no kind of persuasion to influence her decision. Mr. Kettering 
in his heart thought that Ida had achieved astonishing success in 
winning such a wooer. He had a personal liking for the young 
man. The connection was in every way agreeable to him. And 
then it was a great match in the way of money — a very great 
match ! Nevertheless, his little Ida should not be urged against 
her will. 

But Ida, much to the surprise of all her family, except Olga, 
who had had her own thoughts, and kept her own counsel, very 
gravely and decisively accepted the proposal of Mr. Perikles Rho- 
donides. 

“You quite understand, my darling,” said her father, speaking 
to her privately before she saw Rhodonides — “ you quite under- 
stand that, although it is true your mother and I thoroughly ap- 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


383 


prove him, you are not to be swayed by that ? Your future hap- 
piness is our sole object, my child.” 

“Yes, papa, thank you; I am sure of that. But I like Mr. 
Rhodonides very much. I think I should like to marry him if he 
was quite poor.” 

“ Do you, my dear ?” 

“ Yes, papa; I think so. But it is no use imagining things all 
different from what they really are, is it ?” 

But to her sister, a short time later, Ida made a little confi- 
dence. 

“He liked you best at first, Olga,” she whispered, nestling close 
up to her sister, whose arm was round her. 

“ Ida? What nonsense !” cried Olga, coloring a little. 

“ Oh no ! it isn’t nonsense. Of course he did. It was very 
natural,” answered Ida, with perfectly genuine sincerity. “And 
I know something, Olga : it was you who first put it into his head 
to think of me.” 

“ Ida ! If you say such things, I will tell Perikles to-' to make 
you repeat ten Greek verbs every morning before breakfast !” 

“ It is quite true, dear,” answered Ida, with a little quiet nod of 
the head. “ But it does not make me a bit unhappy. I shall suit 
him a great deal better than you would, even supposing you would 
have had him. And he does like me best noiv , you know.” 

“ I should rather think he did, you little goose !” cried Olga, 
giving her sister a great hug, and kissing her, with a tear in her 
eye. 

Among all the congratulations that Ida received, none were 
more cordial than those of her cousin Fritz ; while towards Rho- 
donides he was absolutely effusive. 

“ I do think he is the most kindly-hearted fellow,” said Fritz 
to Miss Stringer (who had now taken him back into favor). 
“ And the city people say he has a very shrewd eye, and a very 
long head for business.” 

“Well,” said Sally, raising her eyebrows and looking at Fritz 
with the brightest of bright gray eyes, “ if your lady-love is con- 
tent, of course I have no right to say a word. But, positively, in 
her place I should think this sort of thing quite extraordinarily 
uncivil ! As long as you thought the young man wanted to marry 
Olga, you pronounced him a hopeless idiot; but directly it appears 


384 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


that he prefers Ida, you find out that he is an uncommonly sensi- 
ble fellow !” 

“ My dear Sally — I mean to call you Sally in future, you know.” 

“ Do you, really ?” 

“ Yes ; I do, really. My dear Sally, those laugh who win. You 
may say whatever you like now.” 

“ I always might !” returned Sally. “ But I didn’t — quite al- 
ways.” 

Fritz and Olga had spoken a great deal together in these days 
about Barbara Copley. Ready as she was with saucy speeches to 
her lover on most subjects, Olga never said a light or jesting word 
to him about Miss Copley ; but listened to his enthusiastic praises 
of her as though she fully shared his feeling. Now, although she 
did admire and esteem Miss Copley, she naturally viewed her more 
coolly than Fritz did. This, however, did not occur to Fritz, lie 
declared, indeed, that Olga had a fine, generous nature, quite above 
jealousy. But it requires a very rare and subtle sort of sympa- 
thy to appreciate the magnanimity whose very essence is to hide 
itself. 

Fritz had had a letter from Barbara, announcing her engage- 
ment. It was a letter such as an affectionate sister might have 
written to a brother in whom she fully trusted. And once he and 
Olga had gone together to her house, but had failed to find her. 
Mrs. Kettering had sent a kind little note, inviting her to spend 
some evening with them quietly ; but Barbara had excused her- 
self. Her uncle was not quite well yet ; and she could not leave 
him. 

Miss Copley, as the affianced wife of Mr. Gilbert Hazel, assumed 
a very different position in the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Kettering from 
that of the music-teacher whom they had patronized. Mr. Hazel 
was poor, certainly. But he had impressed them as being a per- 
son of distinction. General Mullett would come in evening after 
evening, and chat about Bertie, and Bertie’s old home, and Ber- 
tie’s people ; and would expatiate on Bertie’s fine prospects — until 
his father had ruined himself in mining speculations. 

The general had, of course, been duly informed of Hazel’s en- 
gagement, and spoke of it as an imprudent one for his young 
friend. “ The young lady herself is charming. I remember see- 
ing her at your house, a very sweet, modest, lady-like creature. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


385 


How kind and good Lady Lambton was to her ! But you know 
she hasn’t a shilling — eh?” 

“ I am not so sure about that, general,” said Mr. Kettering. 
“ It is on the cards that Miss Copley may be a great heiress.” 

“But, papa,” said Olga. “They say that Mr. Hughes and his 
niece will refuse the money if it comes to them.” 

“Nonsense, my dear!” replied Mr. Kettering, with a bland, su- 
perior smile. “ That is mere rodomontade and nonsense. I will 
not do Mr. Hughes and Miss Copley the injustice to believe that 
they ever said anything of the kind.” 

“ Well, it would be an uncommon, high-flown, extravagant kind 
of thing,” said General Mullett. “ But I’ll tell you what — if the 
young lady has any such vagaries in her head, she has got hold of 
about the only man in England who will let her carry them out! 
Bertie is a dear fellow — a splendid fellow ! But he knows no 
more of the world than a baby !” 

Then they began to speak of Claude Copley’s serious illness; 
and Miss Stringer stated that several of the relatives and con- 
nections of Christopher Dalton had gone down to Norwood or its 
neighborhood, and were keeping a more or less overt watch on 
the young man. Lady Lambton was staying for a week at a 
hotel near the Crystal Palace (“ Finding it suit her health,” said 
Sally Stringer, dryly). Mrs. Armour had taken a cheap lodging 
at Anerly ; and the two Hopkinses, father and son, made frequent 
excursions from town to see young Copley. 

“ Dear me,” exclaimed Mrs. Kettering, opening her eyes very 
wide. “That’s rather horrid, isn’t it? Like vampires, or vul- 
tures, you know ?” 

“ The stakes are pretty large ones, my dear,” said her husband. 
“ It is, in fact, a race of Death against Time — for I am assured 
that the young man’s ultimate recovery is impossible — and even 
an hour or two on one side or the other of midnight on the 30th 
of March would make a vast deal of difference to a good many 
persons.” 

25 


386 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


CHAPTER L. 

One pressing cause of anxiety was at this time unexpectedly 
removed from Aunt Judith’s mind. 

It may be remembered that Fritz Hofmann had commissioned 
Mr. Hughes to paint a picture for him. The offer had been made 
just before the journey to Norwood and Barbara’s decisive an- 
swer to Fritz’s proposal. Since then William Hughes had been 
too ill to resume his work ; and on his part Fritz, as we know, 
had had a sufficient excuse for being absorbed in other matters. 
But now that his engagement to Olga was happily settled — now 
that he had convinced himself that Olga was the one woman in 
the world to make him happy, and that he had always loved her 
from his boyhood — without, he confessed, being fully aware of 
it — he remembered the picture, and wrote to Hughes on the 
subject. 

He begged Mr. Hughes to do him the favor of commencing it 
as soon as possible, since it was to be a joint gift to his mother 
from Olga and himself on their marriage. Moreover, he took 
the liberty of enclosing a check for part of the price in advance 
to defray any incidental expenses that might be incurred. 

The news of this windfall came to Aunt Judith as an unspeak- 
able relief of mind, and she thanked Heaven for it on her knees. 
She wrote to William, confessing how matters stood between her- 
self and Fritz Hofmann. He must not be angry with her. She 
had been so unhappy about Claude. 

The money represented by that little roll of bank-notes was re- 
turned to Fritz with a grateful letter from Miss Hughes, and still 
there remained to William a considerable sum in hand. Part of 
this he resolved to expend in sending Barbara down to Norwood. 
Aunt Judith must no longer be left alone to bear the whole bur- 
den of Claude’s illness. Claude was somewhat better now. And 
in the warmer spring weather he might return to London, or even, 
perhaps, attempt the journey to Yevey, whence good Madame 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


387 


Martin wrote him to visit her house as a guest in the warmest 
terms. To the only objection which Barbara urged against leav- 
ing town — namely, the risk of losing her pupils, if she neglected 
to attend them — her uncle gave no great weight. Whether she 
lost her pupils or not, they must make up their minds to lose her 
before very long. Gilbert Hazel wrote hopefully of his prospects. 
Mr. Wilson had been so well satisfied with the result of his mis- 
sion to London that he talked of establishing him in an office in 
town as agent for the business in Staffordshire, and to conduct 
the foreign correspondence of the firm. If this were done, Hazel 
would be able to offer a home to Barbara within a few months. 
Meanwhile her uncle would send her to stay with Aunt Judith 
until Claude grew stronger, or until — the end came. 

William now set to work zealously on the Marypool picture. 
He was painting at it one afternoon when there came a sharp ring 
at the door of the studio. He thought that the visitor was prob- 
ably Mrs. Green, who often carried him a cup of tea from her 
own table about that hour, and sat chatting with him while he 
drank it ; but on opening the door he was confronted by the ma- 
jestic figure of Miss Jenks. 

Miss Jenks looked more striking, if not precisely more charm- 
ing, than usual, by reason of her having a very small green velvet 
bonnet with a feather in it perched on the top of her head, where 
it looked extraordinarily incongruous and diminutive. Miss 
Jenks, however, was quite satisfied with it. She had admired it 
on the head of Mrs. Armour, and saw no reason to suppose that 
it would produce a different effect on her own. 

“How do you do, Mr. Hughes?” said she, in a loud voice; and 
then, almost pushing past him, she walked into the studio. 

“ I’m very glad that you’re by yourself,” she said, as soon as 
she had sat down, which she did immediately. 

“Yes; I’m alone, because I am busy,” answered William, 
standing before her, palette and pencils in hand. 

“ Ah ! Most industrious, I’m sure. Well, I just wanted to 
speak to you. My motive was in part — monetary ,” said Miss 
Jenks, with strong emphasis. 

“ Cantahit vacuus — she can’t borrow of me!” said William to 
himself but he winced a little as he thought of what was before 
him. 


388 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Miss Jenks, however, did not intend to ask him for a loan, as 
presently appeared. 

“ I hear a good deal of interesting conversation at the board- 
ing-house where I am at present residing,” she continued. “ It is 
a very genteel establishment; for Mrs. Pringle can not be held 
responsible for the somewhat low-lived charikter of the remarks 
made by a party named Towzer. I think — considering the very 
moderate rate of remuneration — it would be vain to expect it.” 

“ Your view is very just indeed,” said William, gravely. “ But 
I must ask you, please, to tell me what you want to say with as 
little delay as possible.” 

It took Miss Jenks some time to explain what she called the 
monetary part of her communication ; her attention being fre- 
quently diverted from the matter in hand by sudden reminis- 
cences of the obnoxious Towzer. But at length she managed to 
explain that among the visitors to the boarding-house was Mr. 
Nathaniel Coney ; and that by dint of attentively listening to all 
he said — whether to Mrs. Armour or to others — she, Miss Jenks, 
had gathered the impression that Mr. Coney was not satisfied in 
his mind with the administration of the vast property left behind 
him by Mr. Christopher Dalton ; and that he wished for clearer 
information than had yet been obtained from the agent in New 
York. 

“ Whether he suspects the agent of carelessness, or dishonesty, 
or what his precise views may be on the subject, I cannot clearly 
explain to you because — because I haven’t the least idea what he 
meant. But Mr. Coney is not quite satisfied — that I’m sure of. 
So I thought I would let you know, being a party interested — or 
at least your nephew. But, of course — ” 

But here Mr. Hughes stopped her, and said, with a sternness 
of eye and voice which she had never before beheld in him, that 
the subject of the will was one which he absolutely declined to 
discuss or to have discussed. 

“Oh!” ejaculated Miss Jenks, staring at him blankly. 

“ Absolutely. Let me hear no further word about it, if you 
please,” said William. 

“ Oh !” ejaculated Miss Jenks, once more. And then there was 
a brief silence. But, after it, Miss Jenks appeared to take a fresh 
start, and came up smiling. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


389 


“Well,” said she, “but there is another point, connected with 
far other and softer sentiments, that I wished to mention.” 

William, who was still standing with his palette on his thumb, 
on hearing this, gave a little start, and glanced helplessly at the 
door. But, although Miss Jenks’s language was alarming, her 
manner was cool, steady, and as suggestive of a respectable non- 
commissioned officer as ever. 

“ It has been remarked on in terms of obloquy, Mr. Hughes,” 
she proceeded, “that when you were calling at Mrs. Pringle’s 
boarding establishment a short time ago, you did not ask for mef 

“ My business was with a gentleman lodging there,” he an- 
swered. 

“Oh ! business. Yes; but there have been sentiments between 
us which are of a far different nature from business. Why this 
cooling-off of attentions which were everything that the most 
delicate attachment could dictate?” said Miss Jenks, making the 
feather in the little green bonnet quiver with her energy. 

“ My dear good lady,” said William, breathlessly, “ I assure 
you you are entirely mistaken — ” 

She caught him up with prompt decision. 

“ Oh dear, no ! No, Mr. Hughes, my senses could not so de- 
ceive me. Nor yet the opinion of my friends and family.” 

“ But, bless my soul, Miss Jenks, your family never set eyes on 
me, so far as I know !” 

“ No ; but I wrote about you to my brother in Northampton. 
And he answered back that he didn’t think much of artists — you 
understand that, although in a most respectable way of business, 
furnished throughout with meogany, and himself a churchwar- 
den, he has not been privileged to open his mind by travelling on 
the Continent — but, on the whole, he didn’t know that I could do 
better. My own means are small, but certain ; and a great help 
where earnings are precarious.” 

William had been gazing helplessly at Miss Jenks, watching 
the green bonnet and feather bob up and down as she jerked her 
head in a kind of dreadful fascination. But, at these words, the 
desperate nature of the position forced itself upon him, and gave 
him courage. 

“Miss Jenks,” he said, “before you go any further, I am 
bound to tell you that I long ago made up my mind never to 


390 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


marry. I should not trouble you with this private detail,” he 
added, flushing up to the roots of his hair, “ but that I find it 
necessary to make myself clearly understood.” 

“And is that all you have to say to me?” demanded Miss 
Jenks, standing bolt upright, and looking very terrible. 

“ All — except good-afternoon,” answered William, holding out 
his hand. 

Miss Jenks did not take it. “ Then,” said she, “ I think you 
have behaved very badly.” 

“ Come, come, Miss Jenks, that is nonsense, you know ! The 
whole thing is absurd. I — I dare say you were only joking. Let 
us shake hands and part friends.” 

“Joking!” echoed Miss Jenks, with unspeakable indignation. 
Nothing of the kind ! I was quite in earnest.” 

Then she asked herself whether he possibly might have sup- 
posed her to be joking! She was aware that a great many per- 
sons found jokes where she herself saw none. And there had 
been a softness in the painter’s eye, and a little smile round his 
mouth when he offered to shake hands, which forbade her to de- 
spair. “ Well, but I don’t see why you should never marry,” she 
said, persuasively. “Between us, we should have quite an ele- 
gant sufficiency.” 

“ My good lady, it is not necessary that you should see why,” 
answered William, now fairly at bay. “ It can be no business of 
yours. And now I must beg you to leave me to go on with my 
work.” He opened the door as he spoke, and held it open for 
her to pass out. Then, at length, Miss Jenks did understand that 
she was vanquished. “ I consider that you have behaved very 
bad — very bad indeed,” she said, stalking by him. “ After your 
very marked attentions in Yevey, you were bound to come for- 
ward.” 

She had got out on to the landing, and was almost at the top 
of the stairs, when she stopped and pulled a card out of her pocket. 

“ There,” she said, holding it out to him. “ That address, 
which is my brother’s house in Northampton, will always find 
me, in case — ” 

And then Miss Jenks retreated down the staircase in good order. 

When Barbara arrived at Norwood she found Mrs. Armour in- 
stalled as a daily visitor to her brother. And she found, too, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


391 


that he was the object of a constant watchfulness and solicitude 
on the part of others, the meaning of which could not be doubtful. 
To her, at least, it was not doubtful. But she observed with as- 
tonishment that Claude himself was not troubled bv it. 

•/ 

“ They’re all beginning to lick my shoes, you see,” he said to 
her one day, with a kind of triumph, which amazed her and jarred 
upon her inexpressibly. And yet, as she afterwards reflected, it 
was a merciful blindness which hindered him from reading the 
eager attention lavished on him as clearly as she did. As for 
Aunt Judith, she was absorbed in ministering to her sick boy — 
cheering him, coaxing him, petting him, trying to shield him 
from every breath of discomfort. Lookers-on said how wonder- 
ful was her infatuation, and how little she seemed to recognize 
his faults. But lookers-on were a little mistaken there. His 
faults were plain enough, even to Aunt Judith’s partial eyes. 
But the knowledge of them only intensified her devotion. “ If 
I do not love him, who will, or can, love him ?” That is a ques- 
tion to which many a man has owed the long-suffering, self- 
sacrificing tenderness of a woman’s heart. 

Among Claude’s frequent visitors was Mortimer Hopkins. 
And his father also would sometimes make a brief call. 

Mr. John Hopkins’s mind was far too much occupied with the 
anxious balancing of probabilities as to whether young Copley 
would or would not live to sign a will on the 31st of March 
to leave any room for lamenting his son’s disappointment in love. 
He had had a long talk with Mrs. Armour, and Mrs. Armour re- 
ported Claude to have made a wonderful rally; and, upon his — 
Mr. John Hopkins’s — soul and body, it began to look as if the 
money would slip through their fingers, after all ! 

Mortimer did not dare to say to his father that he valued Miss 
Copley far above all Chris Dalton’s dollars. But at the moment 
he genuinely felt it. And now, for the first time, his father’s greed 
and coarsely manifested eagerness for the speedy ending of that 
young life, fading before their eyes, gave him a sense of repulsion. 

Mortimer had probably never heard of Sir Richard Steele’s 
noble compliment, but it was true of himself that to have loved 
Barbara Copley constituted the best part of his education. It is 
an ennobling thing for any young man to be genuinely, heartily, 
romantically in love with a pure woman. And to a young man 


392 


THAT WILD WHEEL, 


of the class to which Mortimer Hopkins belonged, it was certain 
to be the most refining influence of his life. 

Not that he suddenly became a new creature, or dropped the 
affected airs which marked his demeanor out of office hours. 
There is no harlequin’s wand in real life capable of effecting such 
transformations as that ! Even the arch magician Cupid makes 
no sudden changes in the texture of a man’s mind or the bent 
of a character. And no doubt he talked a great deal of nonsense 
and indulged in a great deal of fictitious misery. But, never- 
theless, he was probably the better to the end of his days for 
having loved Barbara Copley. 

When Mortimer found Miss Copley had come to remain in the 
lodgings at Norwood, his first anxiety was to assure her that she 
need fear no annoyance from him. By that time the news of 
her engagement had reached him ; and he took a kind of painful 
pleasure in talking to Mrs. Green about it. Mrs. Green had heard 
much of Gilbert Hazel from the Short ways; and also from Fritz 
Hofmann, who, when he went to see Hughes at his studio, did 
not omit to pay a visit to the good-natured little flower-painter. 

“ He is dark, is he not ?” Mortimer would say, glancing at his 
own colorless image in the mirror. “ And his features — are they 
at all of a Grecian cast, Mrs. Green ?” And then he would strike 
his forehead with the palm of his hand, and exclaim, “They met 
or e’er I had seen her ! Her young heart w r as yielded unawares 
to the dark stranger from yon burning clime. And then, there 
hung about him the romance of a soldier’s glory !” 

“ I don’t know that there was much glory,” answered Mrs. 
Green. “ Not in the way of fighting, you know.” 

“ Ah, but there was his uniform, Mrs. Green !” said Mortimer, 
folding his arm and heaving a bitter sigh. 

Mrs. Green did not point out that Mr. Hazel had probably not 
been in the habit of fishing the trout-streams near Thornfield 
Farm in full regimentals ; for she perceived that it afforded Mor- 
timer some gratification to oppose to his own classic figure, ra- 
diant with the light of Art and Poetry, the contrasted image of 
a black-browed, Byronic, land-corsair species of rival. And she 
thought that if he enjoyed that kind of make-believe, he might 
be indulged in it ; for, all things considered, Mortimer was coming 
out a great deal better than she had expected. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


393 


It must be owned that Barbara felt a little disquieted when, on 
the first evening of her arrival at Norwood, Mr. Mortimer Hop- 
kins walked in, evidently as an accustomed visitor; and, in truth, 
he looked almost equally startled on seeing her. But presently 
he found an opportunity to say to her, in a low voice, “ Miss 
Copley, I came here to-night all unconscious of your presence. 
If you object to music, I will withdraw at once. But — your 
brother has asked me to visit him ; and I — I do assure you, Miss 
Copley, that I do my best to make his mind easy, and amuse 
him, and keep others off disagreeable topics in his presence. I 
am not wholly without some humble strain of human feeling, 
Miss Copley — upon my soul, I ain’t !” 

“ I am sure you will be considerate, Mr. Hopkins,” answered 
Barbara, kindly. And in order to justify her confidence in him, 
Mortimer walked away to Claude’s chair, and remained near it 
until he went away. 

On the other side of Claude’s chair sat Mrs. Armour. She sat 
there now almost every evening. Barbara distrusted this woman, 
and she believed that her influence over Claude was not a good 
one. But Aunt Judith said that Mrs. Armour could not do any 
harm as things were now, and that Claude had a kind of fond- 
ness for her. “ And,” added Aunt Judith, “ although you’ll think 
it a strange thing to say, knowing ray opinion of the woman’s 
hardness and greediness, she has a sort of fondness for him. I’m 
not clever enough to explain it all in words, but I’ve watched her 
pretty closely, and I’m sure there is a touch of softness in her 
heart for my boy.” 

Another visitor to be seen occasionally at Miss Hughes’s lodg- 
ings was Lady Lambton, accompanied by her sister Blanche, who 
was staying with her at the hotel. And sometimes Olga Ketter- 
ing would spend a few days at Norwood under my lady’s chape- 
ronage ; and then she and Fritz would join the circle in Claude’s 
sitting-room of an evening. 

Amy Lambton bore no malice. The Kettering sisters had 
robbed her of two admirers; but since she had persuaded her- 
self that in each case the admirer had only abandoned his alle- 
giance on the conviction that she (Amy) would never be induced 
to accept him, she endured his defection with equanimity. Nor 
did she disdain to dazzle Mortimer Hopkins, nor to play off sun- 


394 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


dry captivating airs and graces for his behoof. Admiration was 
worth having from any man. She was never fastidious as to who 
professed it. To her apprehension a compliment was a compli- 
ment, as a coin is a coin. Non olet ! Such was Lady Lambton’s 
view, and it made her life extremely cheerful. 

Claude was very weak now — too weak sometimes to endure 
the society of more than one or two persons at a time, although 
there were fluctuations, and he sometimes displayed unexpected 
energy. But when he was tired he w r ould withdraw to his own 
room, which adjoined the sitting-room, and recline there on a 
couch near the fire ; and Mrs. Armour or Aunt Judith, or both, 
would always be by his side. 

Whenever this happened, Claude strenuously resisted any pro- 
posal to break up the little assembly. The people must not go 
away. Why should they ? He would very likely return to the 
sitting-room by and by. And meanwhile he liked to hear their 
voices, and would leave his door ajar. He was only feeling a 
little bowled over by the relaxing feeling of the spring, or a little 
tried by the rasping March wind, or the damp had affected his 
nervous system. There was nothing to make a fuss about — 
nothing. 

Claude was gentler to his sister than formerly ; but he never 
desired her to be near him. He preferred Aunt Judith’s minis- 
trations, or Mrs. Armour’s, in his sick-room, to Barbara’s. But 
one day, when the brother and sister were alone together, and he 
was lying on his couch, which had been drawn up near the win- 
dow, he said, suddenly, “ Barbara, when will Hazel come ? I 
should like to have seen your husband.” 

The phrase smote on her ears like a knell. 

“ He talks of being in London in a fortnight,” she answered, 
choking back her tears. “ But if you wished it, dear, he would 
make an effort to come sooner. Shall I ask him ?” 

He was looking steadfastly upward at a strip of pale-blue sky 
with gray clouds hurrying across it. His eyes were very bright 
and wistful. “Yes,” he answered, in a whisper. “Ask him to 
come soon. And, Barbara — ” 

She drew nearer and bent her ear down to his lips. 

“ Don’t — tell — Aunt Judith.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


395 


CHAPTER LI. 

The wind was raving and screaming, chasing the clouds across 
a leaden sky like a flock of huddled, terrified sheep flying over a 
dreary plain. Now and again a gust of rain would lash the win- 
dow-panes and leave them streaming; but the gale was too strong 
to let the rain fall in any considerable quantity. It was not very 
cold, for the wind was westerly ; but it was a wild, raw, cheerless 
morning. 

As the casement shook and rattled, two persons seated on either 
side of a bed looked anxiously at the sleeper lying there, fearing 
lest he should be roughly started from his sleep. The two watch- 
ers were Barbara Copley and her uncle; and the sleeper on the 
bed was Claude. 

It was between eight and nine o’clock, and a ghastly daylight 
from the gray sky fell full upon his face. It was one of his fancies 
to have the blinds drawn up, and the curtains pulled back as far 
as possible. The one window of his bedchamber had a fairly 
open view, and there was a wider expanse of sky visible from it 
than from most suburban dwellings. His face looked ashen-white 
as it lay on the pillow ; and its pallor was enhanced by the black- 
ness of his brows and eyelashes, and thick masses of hair. One 
hand lay outside the coverlet, on the side nearest to his uncle. 
It was painfully emaciated, as was the face, with its sharpened 
features and hollow cheeks. He had been very ill in the night — 
so ill that at one time the doctor, who had been summoned, 
doubted whether he could live until the morning. Towards 
midnight, however, the young man had fallen into a deep slum- 
ber, and the doctor had left the house with a word or two to 
Gilbert Hazel, who was watching in the sitting-room adjoining 
the sick-chamber, to the effect that the patient might yet last 
some time longer. 

As the doctor, who lived near at hand, was leaving the garden 
gate, with his coat buttoned up, and his head bent down, to meet 


396 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


the rising storm of wind, a man stepped up to him, and in a 
low tone asked how he had left his patient. 

“Better,” answered the doctor, briefly and roughly. He had 
recognized Mr. John Hopkins in this anxious inquirer; and he 
was disgusted by the display of Mr. John Hopkins’s anxiety. 
The doctor, of course, knew all about the story of the will — as 
did, indeed, the whole neighborhood. And some hard things 
had been said about the way “ those harpies ” hovered about the 
poor young man. Albeit there were not wanting voices on the 
other side to declare it was only natural a man should be anxious 
about such a great fortune for his only son ; and that, seeing 
what strange things did happen, you couldn’t wonder if folks 
looked a little sharp so as to be sure of dates and days and hours. 
But the doctor was not among those who took a lenient view of 
Mr. John Hopkins’s behavior. To him it almost seemed as 
though the man’s keen watchfulness were directed against him- 
self — as though he might be suspected of conniving at a conceal- 
ment of the truth for a few all-important hours ! Therefore it 
was that he answered with a rough growl, “Better,” and strode 
quickly on his way. 

Mr. John Hopkins was agitated in many ways at this time. 
Not only was he watching Claude Copley’s decay with an almost 
wolfish eagerness, but he was disquieted by the tidings from 
America, of which Miss Jenks had conveyed some confused hints 
to William Hughes. He had quarrelled with his old crony and 
friend, Nathaniel Coney, on the first reading of Dalton’s will, de- 
claring that had Coney been faithful and zealous in pleading 
Mortimer’s cause with his great-uncle, such a will would never 
have been made. And Coney, deeply resenting the injustice of 
the accusation, had said that he would never willingly speak to 
John Hopkins again. 

But when rumors reached Mortimer’s father that all did not 
seem to be going right with the property in America; when he 
learned that the statements of the New York agent (Mr. Reuben 
Wilford) were by no means clear and satisfactory respecting sun- 
dry investments which Mr. Dalton had held ; when suspicions be- 
gan to haunt his mind that the agent might be playing false, 
and might even bolt with a huge sum of money — when all these 
fears and dangers oppressed his mind, then John Hopkins betook 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


397 


himself to his old friend, and made a humble apology for his in- 
temperate words. 

“You see, they were uttered in the ’eat of feeling, Nat,” said 
Mr. Hopkins. “ But you are not one to bear a grudge for words 
uttered in the ’eat of feeling. Nat Coney has too much ’igh- 
mindedness about him for that, if I know him !” 

It appeared, however, that he did not know Nat Coney, for 
that gentleman was still very stiff and implacable, and required 
much humility and beseeching before he would come round at 
all. But at length he was so far pacified as to consent to discuss 
the state of affairs. Yes, he certainly had heard one or two 
things from private sources in the States which made him fancy 
that some of Dalton’s investments looked a little fishy. It might 
be desirable to sell out here and there, even at a loss. The sum 
total of Dalton’s wealth was so vast that a few thousands more 
or less would scarcely be felt when it came to be divided — if ever 
it did come to be divided. But he (Mr. Coney) could do noth- 
ing. What could any one do, so long as the question was still 
doubtful who was to inherit the money? It was true that he 
had been able to carry out the duties of his executorship in the 
matter of selling the estate in Essex and investing the proceeds 
for Mrs. Shortway’s benefit; true also that Mrs. Armour and her 
sister and Miss Stringer had received their legacies. But then 
the money had been in English government securities, and the 
legacies were not contingent on young Copley’s life. As for 
Reuben Wilford, he believed him to be on the square. And, in 
any case, Mr. John Hopkins had certainly no power to interfere 
with him. 

All which utterances were not reassuring to Hopkins; they 
excited in him a burning impatience for Claude’s death, that con- 
sumed him like a fever. He became almost incapacitated from 
attending to his business. He had obtained leave of absence for 
Mortimer from Baikie k Wiggetts’s counting-house, and had 
insisted that his son should spend the whole of it at Norwood, 
so as to keep a watch on the Hugheses. But directly he himself 
returned to London he would be seized with mistrust of Morti- 
mer’s vigilance — indeed, Mortimer was altogether too lukewarm 
in the matter to please him — and would rush back to Norwood 
at unexpected times, and lurk about the house where the sick 


398 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


youth lay. Thus it was that he had become aware of the doc- 
tor’s having been summoned to Claude at an unusual hour, and 
had waited to interrogate him when he came out. 

This had happened close upon midnight, and the next morning, 
between eight and nine, Claude was still sleeping profoundly, and 
the date of that morning was the 29th of March. 

The rattling of the window-panes and the sound of the wind 
in the chimney did not disturb him ; but all at once he opened 
his eyes and gazed out of the window, to where a pallid gleam 
of sunshine was now trying to pierce the gray vapors of the sky. 

“ To-morrow is my birthday,” he said. 

His voice was so feeble that Barbara had to bend down her ear 
to catch the words. Then he said more audibly, 

“ Where’s Hazel ? I want Hazel.” 

Gilbert Hazel had arrived a week ago in compliance with Bar- 
bara’s summons. Claude was apt to be capricious and incalcu- 
lable in his likings and dislikings, but he showed pleasure in 
Hazel’s presence from the first — clinging to his strength and 
gentleness as a child might do. No one could lift him in his 
bed like Hazel ; no one’s arm was so strong and steady to lean 
upon as Hazel’s, when the poor invalid was able to totter from 
one room to another ; and then, above all, Hazel never made a 
fuss ! 

Any too strong manifestations of anxiety or sympathy worried 
him and made him nervous. What might be Claude’s opinion of 
his own state it was impossible to divine with accuracy. In truth, 
it fluctuated. There were moments when the conviction that his 
malady was mortal, and that the end was near, took hold upon 
his mind with irresistible force. And then, again, he would be 
buoyed up by hope. But he had never — except by some involun- 
tary impulse — said a word to indicate that he thought his recovery 
hopeless. 

“ Gilbert is walking near the house,” said Barbara, when her 
brother asked for Hazel. “ He would not go far away lest you 
might want him. I can call him immediately.” And she left the 
room for that purpose. 

When she was gone, Claude, for the first time, turned his eyes 
upon his uncle. “You didn’t sit up all night, Uncle William?” 
he said. 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


399 


“ Ob, I did very well, my boy. This is a famous arm-chair.” 

“Barbara?” whispered Claude. 

“ No, no; we sent Barbara and Aunt Judith to bed. Hazel and 
I took the watch between us, turn and turn about.” 

“Poor Uncle William!” murmured Claude, softly. Then he 
resumed his wide-eyed gaze at the sky, and was silent until Bar- 
bara returned, followed by Hazel. 

“ Will you lift me up, and put some pillows behind my 
shoulders ?” said Claude. And there was a gleam almost of 
cheerfulness on his face as he looked up at Hazel. It was done 
deftly and gently. Then Claude said, with his thin white fingers 
still twined round Hazel’s hand, “ Send them away ! Uncle Will- 
iam ought to lie down and rest. Make Barbara wrap herself up 
and go into the garden for a breath of air. Make her go, 
Hazel.” 

“ I think Claude’s suggestion is a good one, dearest,” said 
Barbara’s lover, looking tenderly at her pale face. 

“Yes, yes; go!” cried Claude, impatiently. “And don’t let 
any one come until my bell rings. Will you tell them down- 
stairs, Barbara? Nobody must come. I want to speak to 
Hazel.” 

Then William and Barbara quietly withdrew, and closed the 
door. 

Claude remained silent for a while. There was a strange 
passivity about him. A little flash, a faint reflection of his old 
impatient humor, had come into his eyes for a moment in urg- 
ing his sister to go away. But, now again, he lay propped up 
against his cushions, staring at the sky with a placid, solemn 
look. 

Gilbert Hazel quietly seated himself beside the bed, and 
waited. 

Suddenly, Claude said, with the manner of one just awakened, 
although his eyes had not blinked in their steadfast gaze, “ Can 
you get a pen and ink and some paper ? We mustn’t waste all our 

time.” 

There were writing materials in the next room, and Hazel 
brought them. But he said, “Do you think you are strong 
enough to write now, old fellow ? Would it not be better to 
wait until you have had some food ?” 


400 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


Claude shook his head. “No,” he said. “I couldn’t write; 
not much, at least. But I can’t wait. There’s so little time be- 
fore they come back, you know. I want you to write what I 
dictate. It’s legal, isn’t it, to dictate your will, so long as you 
sign it yourself ?” 

“Your will? Oh yes; it is legal.” 

Then write. To-morrow I can sign it. To-morrow is my 
birthday. But we will get it ready now ; because to-morrow I 
might be — too — tired.” 

Hazel drew a little table near to the bed, spread out a sheet of 
writing-paper on it, and looked gravely at Claude. 

“ Write first, that it is my last will and testament, and that I 
am clear in my mind. You can put it into proper words.” 

Hazel wrote silently, and then read aloud what he had written. 
Claude made an approving gesture of the head. Then he stretched 
out his hand, and took hold of the other man’s — so different from 
his own ! So warm and strong, and full of life and energy. 

“ You don’t want to marry a rich wife, do you ?” he whispered, 
with a faint smile. “ No ; I know. And she loves you very 
dearly. My sister Barbara is very good. They say she is like 
our mother. I say, Hazel — you’ll always be true and kind to 
her? Yes; I believe it. Well, now write this. But you must 
put it plain and clear. Your words will be better than mine.” 

Hazel waited, pen in hand, looking at him earnestly. Claude 
seemed to be collecting himself for an effort. Then he began to 
dictate: “I give and bequeath all the money and property of 
every kind that may come to me by the will of Mr. Christopher 
Dalton to those persons who would have it after death, if I did 
not live to be twenty-one. And let it be divided among them as 
the will directs. And I desire it to be known that — I do this — 
in compliance with — the earnest wish of — all my family.” 

Hazel’s pen sounded for a while upon the paper, and then 
ceased. He had finished, and there was perfect stillness in the 
room. The wind had dropped. 

“ Do you think,” said Claude, feebly — “ do you think Uncle 
William will say I have done well?” 

Hazel stood up beside the bed, and laid his hand gently on the 
boy’s forehead. “ I am sure he will, Claude,” he said. “ We 
shall all say so.” 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


401 


There came a sudden flush of animation into Claude’s face, 
like the flicker of a flame ; and he raised his head from the pil- 
low. “ If I — when I get better — I shall stick to it, you know,” 
he said, eagerly. “ I’ve made up my mind. I won’t take the 
money. To-morrow it will be mine. It will be I who give it 
up — of my own free will — won’t it? They’ll all know that — 
won’t they, Hazel ?” 

“Yes, my boy.” 

“ Look here — don’t tell Uncle William yet. I know this has 
— worried him. But one day more won’t matter now ; and I 
will give it him to-morrow — for a present — on my birthday. 
There are not many fellows who would do such a thing, are there? 
It’s a great fortune. But I mean to give it up. Juliet Armour 
doesn’t believe I can rise to that ! But she’ll see. They’ll all 
see !” 

He let his head sink back among the pillows, and closed his eyes. 

“ You are tired, Claude,” said Hazel. “ You must be still now, 
and rest. I will keep this paper safely until to-morrow. Shall I?” 

Claude answered “Yes” by a silent motion of the lips. Then, 
just as Hazel was moving away from the bed, he stretched out his 
hand to detain him. “ Sit down a minute ! I want to say some- 
thing to you.” 

Hazel hesitated ; but Claude plucked at his sleeve, saying, “ No ; 
I must speak now. There is so little time.” His voice scarcely 
rose above a whisper ; and Hazel, seated by the bed, leaned down 
very near him to listen. 

“ I say, Hazel, you — you won’t laugh at me?” 

“ That’s not very likely, old fellow — unless you mean me to 
laugh.” 

“ No. I want you, when I’m gone — I am going to Yevey with 
Aunt Judith, you know, when I get stronger — I want you to 
promise, when I am gone, to give a message for me to Juliet 
Armour.” 

He paused, looking up wistfully in the other man’s face. 

“ I promise, Claude.” 

“ I thank you, Hazel. I couldn’t ask the others. They — they 
wouldn’t understand.” He softly put his arm round Hazel’s neck 
and clung to him, as he whispered, brokenly, “In a little box on 
my table, you’ll find a piece of silver paper folded up. Inside it 
26 


402 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


there’s a lock — of her hair. I cut it off at Vevey when we said 
‘ good-by.’ She laughed at me — and called me a foolish boy. 
But she let me take it — and she let me kiss her. I know she’s 
not — not so good as Barbara. But she is better than — some 
people think. She has been very good to me — since I’ve been ill. 
She’ll be sorry for a little while when — I’m gone. Will you give 
her back that lock of hair, and say that I had — always kept it — 
even when she was so angry — about the will ? Tell her that. 
And tell her that I sent her — my love, at the last, before I — went 
away.” 

“ I will do it, my brother.” 

“ God bless you, Hazel ! If you’ll just wait there — one quarter 
of an hour, I will doze a little. And then you may ring. I’m — 
so — tired !” 

He closed his eyes, but opened them again almost immediately, 
looking over Hazel’s shoulder. “ Is that my mother beside you ?” 
he murmured. Then he shut his eyes once more with a smile, 
and, holding Hazel’s hand, fell asleep. 

Half an hour later the doctor stood with Hazel beside the bed, 
looking down on the marble serenity of the young face on the 
pillow. “ Poor boy !” he murmured. “ He’s smiling as if he 
saw kind faces in his dreams. He will never suffer more in this 
world. And which of us would have the heart to w r ake him if 
we could ?” 


CHAPTER LII. 

Peace and a great stillness in the chamber of death. Peace 
and a hushed sorrow in the hearts of the living who had loved 
Claude Copley. Their love had been made up mainly of self- 
sacrifice — the most enduring kind of all. 

Poor old Judith had sorrowed bitterly, but the first violence of 
her grief was over. Judith’s feelings were quick and strong even 
in her old age ; but with her the fire flared and died down ; the 
tears gushed forth abundantly, and were dried. William was of 
a different temperament. In him intense passionateness was 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


403 


blended with constant, clinging affection. The exquisite sensi- 
tiveness, which might otherwise have eaten away some of the 
finer parts of his character by generating a kind of egoism, was 
counteracted by the life-long habit of considering the feelings of 
others rather than his own. It was he who chiefly consoled and 
supported Aunt Judith. And yet his compassionate tenderness 
for Claude would quiver at a touch long after Judith could speak 
calmly of poor Olive’s boy. 

To Barbara there was something inexpressibly sweet and com- 
forting in the knowledge that Gilbert had received her brother’s 
last confidence and soothed her brother’s last moments. He had 
died holding Gilbert’s hand. 

When Claude had been laid in his coffin, Hazel sought Juliet 
Armour and faithfully delivered the message intrusted to him by 
the dead. 

“ May I see him ?” she asked. And Hazel led her privately 
into the room, and stood beside her as she looked down on the 
white young face, so much sweeter and more serene now than 
she had ever beheld it in life. Then Hazel took the lock of her 
own yellow hair from the box where Claude had treasured it, and 
gently put it into her hand. 

Juliet stood there, silent and dry-eyed. At length she bent 
down and kissed Claude’s brow, and then turned awav and went 
into the sitting-room without a word. 

“ Thank you,” she said to Hazel when the door of the death- 
chamber was closed again. “ Good-by.” 

She held out her hand in farewell, and Hazel took it. All at 
once her fingers clasped his tightly, and she said, gazing at him 
intently with the hard, blue eyes that had a haggard, suffering 
look in them, 

“ You are going to be married?” 

“ Yes.” 

She paused, still holding his hand with a strong grip that had 
no suggestion of tenderness in it. Then she said, 

“ You are very much in love ?” 

“ With all my heart, and soul, and strength !” 

“Yes. I used to think no man really loved like that. Men 
are such liars ! But you are true. Good-by, Bertie Hazel. 
When that poor boy died, the last heart on this earth that had 


404 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


one pulse of love for me ceased to beat. That’s dreary, isn’t it ? 
He was foolish, and selfrsh, and wayward ; but — do you know, 
I feel at this moment that I would give up the money to have 
him back alive. You would hardly believe that of me, would 
you ? Perhaps I sha’n’t believe it of myself to-morrow.” 

Suddenly she pressed the hand she still held to her lips ; and 
her tears streamed over it. But the next moment she drew her 
veil down with an abrupt, resolute gesture, and went away. 

The will that the dying boy had dictated moved William pro- 
foundly. Legally it had, of course, no force or value. Death 
had stepped in to decide the question of the inheritance, and had 
won the race against Time. But the will had lifted a heavy load 
from the soul of William Hughes. Claude had been loyal to 
honor and duty at the last ! Characteristically, William was full 
of loving pride in speaking of his dear boy’s renunciation, un- 
conscious that it had been inspired by himself, and oblivious that 
it had been made but tardily. 

In the little household there was no dissentient feeling about 
the fortune they had lost. It seemed to them all very natural to 
thank God that they were rid forever of the contamination of 
Dalton’s money ; and Claude’s last words had taken away the 
painful sense that their immunity from this shame was purchased 
by his death. Even had Claude lived, he would have renounced 
it ! They, at least, did not doubt that. 

A great peace fell upon them. Barbara, as she kissed her 
brother’s face for the last time, whispered a blessing and a thanks- 
giving. Claude had spared their uncle the rankling of a life-long 
wound. 

But while these pure-spirited persons were well content to be 
left tranquil in their poverty, a fever of excitement was raging in 
the breasts of the heirs, to whom Claude’s death had assigned 
Dalton’s million and a half — more or less — of dollars. 

The sharks that had so long and so eagerly been following on 
the track of death were at length about to seize their prey. The 
morsels were very unequally distributed, it was true ; but the 
smallest of them was a respectable mouthful, even for a shark. 

It had not hitherto been possible to obtain from Mr. Reuben 
Wilford the complete list of Dalton’s investments. Mr. Coney, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


405 


to whom John Hopkins again appealed on the subject, answered 
that no doubt most of Dalton’s papers — script shares, debentures, 
and vouchers of all kinds — were deposited with his bankers in 
New York. But there was no knowing whether they were all 
there. He had been very close and secret, employing at one 
time several agents in different and far-distant parts of the States, 
who knew nothing of each other. He (Coney) believed that lat- 
terly Mr. Reuben Wilford had been intrusted with the manage- 
ment of nearly all Dalton’s property. But who could say posi- 
tively ? 

Meanwhile, one or two investments in which Dalton was stated 
to have embarked large sums were rumored to be becoming daily 
more precarious. Within ten days of Claude Copley’s death, the 
collapse was announced of a railway company in which Dalton 
was said to have been a large shareholder ; and shortly afterwards 
there followed the most dismal reports of some silver mines which 
Mr. Wilford had mentioned as being among the speculations Dal- 
ton had invested in. The city of London was, probably, not 
profoundly moved by these tidings ; but to a certain set of per- 
sons in the city of London it appeared as though Chris Dalton’s 
will, and the “ risky ” nature of Chris Dalton’s wealth, were the 
all-absorbing topics of the day. 

The Concrete has an irresistible attraction for human nature, 
and the most radical reformer extant — supposing it possible that 
such a one should postpone his public duty to his private gratifi- 
cation — would infinitely more enjoy the narrative of an eye-wit- 
ness as to how some illustrious personage stood with his hands 
in his pockets, or pulled out his handkerchief, or said with good- 
humored affability, “ How do you do, Mr. Smith ? I remember 
you very well at Toronto,” than the most scathing and conclusive 
arguments against princes and peers in the abstract. Therefore 
it was that the fact of young Rhodonides being engaged to marry 
a relative of one of Chris Dalton’s legatees, and of Chris Dalton’s 
grandnephew and chief heir actually occupying a stool in the 
counting-house of Messrs. Baikie & Wiggetts, gave to every 
clerk, cashier, and office-boy in those eminent mercantile estab- 
lishments a zest and interest in the whole affair quite incom- 
mensurable with the financial interests involved in it. 

Sundry circles in the West End also were agreeably agitated 


406 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


by the vicissitudes of the Dalton will case. Lady Lambton went 
about appealing to her male friends ; making artless inquiries with 
clasped hands and much play of her handsome eyes. 

“ As it is not for myself, you know, I don’t mind asking. I 
am not greedy of money, really ! I don’t boast of it, you know. 
Very likely I am too careless of my own interests; and there is 
no wisdom in that. But I have one merit, at any rate — I am 
candid about my faults. But this matter is so important to 
mamma and the girls ! How strangely romantic it seems — does 
it not ? — that mamma’s Cousin Christopher should have remem- 
bered their boy-and-girl attachment after all those years!” 

Lady Lambton would say this kind of thing to General Mullett, 
or, confidentially, to Mr. Kettering. But she did not venture on 
such allusions in the hearing of Miss Sally Stringer, who always 
declared with the utmost frankness that her distant relative, Chris 
Dalton, had been a selfish rascal — and a mean, sneaking kind of 
selfish rascal to boot. Sally would certainly have scouted the 
attempt to get up any tender sentiment in connection with his 
memory. But the unadorned prose of life — in simple language, 
the plain truth — was seldom agreeable to Amy Lambton. 

Then, too, Mrs. Armour was eager for her rights. And, above 
all, Mr. John Hopkins, on behalf of his son, was feverishly rest- 
less and anxious. 

At length Hopkins took a resolution. He would go to Amer- 
ica and see after things for himself. And, accordingly, on the 
14th of April, a little over a fortnight after Claude’s death, 
he sailed from Liverpool for New York, leaving his foreman in 
charge of the carving and gilding business, and the picture-deal- 
ing department in a state of suspended animation. 

He did not purpose being absent more than six weeks, includ- 
ing the two voyages across the Atlantic. And during his father’s 
absence Mortimer solaced himself with the society of the faithful 
Green and Toller ; and also made frequent visits to Mrs. Green, 
the flower-painter, with whom he enjoyed a kind of luxury of 
woe in talking about Miss Copley. Barbara, it seemed, was to 
be married early in May. “ It will be a very simple, quiet wed- 
ding,” said Mrs. Green. “ Not only because of the family being 
in mourning, but because, by what I hear, their means will be 
very modest — anyway at first. But Mr. Hazel isn’t likely to 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


407 


mind its being quiet. I think bridegrooms, in general, rather like 
hiding their light under a bushel.” 

“ Mind it !” echoed Mortimer, bitterly. “ What has he got to 
mind ? Could pearls and diamonds, or even powdered footmen, 
shed a lustre upon her ? Nay, rather would her mild effulgence 
turn the barren walls of a registrar’s office into things of beauty. 
Mind it ! No, I don’t suppose he’ll mind it !” 

The Hugheses had returned to London, but Mortimer had not 
seen them. He even tried to avoid any chance meeting with 
William Hughes in the neighborhood of his studio. 

“ It can’t be very agreeable to any of the family to see me at 
present,” he said to Mrs. Green, with more delicacy of feeling 
than she had given him credit for. Many of Mortimer’s evenings 
were spent at this time in the boarding-house near the Red Lion 
Square, where Mr. Coney had introduced him. He was an ob- 
ject of intense interest to the inmates of that genteel establish- 
ment, and was much gratified and flattered by the attention he 
attracted. Mrs. Armour was still there, as was also Miss Jenks; 
but the latter lady had announced her intention of shortly re- 
turning to the mahogany-furnished mansion of her brother in 
Northampton, in order to recruit her health and spirits, greatly 
shaken — as she emphatically declared in a loud voice, and stand- 
ing bolt upright on the hearth-rug in the boarding-house drawing- 
room — by an unrequited attachment. 

Mr. John Hopkins had been gone about four weeks, during 
which time only one letter had been received from him, saying 
that he and Mr. Wilford were about to “ go into ” Chris Dalton’s 
affairs together, when one evening the landlady of the boarding- 
house appeared in the drawing-room, and requested Mr. Mortimer 
Hopkins to go down-stairs, where a gentleman was urgently de- 
sirous to speak with him. 

Mortimer, who had been displaying his Greek profile for the 
benefit of the boarders, turned round with a lofty and languid air, 
and inquired who the person was. 

“ Well, sir, I think it’s your father,” said Mrs. Pringle. “He 
gave the name of ’Opkins.” 

“The governor, by Jingo!” cried Mortimer, jumping up and 
forgetting his languor, and he forthwith ran down-stairs. He was 
closely followed by Juliet Armour, who, divining that there was 


408 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


news about the inheritance, was resolved to hear it, and by Mr. 
Coney. 

They entered the dining-room only a minute or so after Morti- 
mer, and they found him staring at his father, who, pale, dirty, 
and unshaven, and evidently in a state of considerable bodily pros- 
tration, was seated at the end of the long dining-table. 

“ Why, Hopkins,” exclaimed Mr. Coney, advancing towards 
him, “ what’s up ?” 

“ What’s up ? It’s all up ! If ever there was a scoundrel, a 
robber, an unprincipled swindler, a — a — get me a drop of brandy, 
Mortimer. I’ve not got over the sea-sickness yet.” 

“But what is it? Who is it?” asked Coney, while the young 
man rang the bell for some brandy, and Mrs. Armour, with fixed, 
angry eyes, demanded to be informed of the true state of the case 
without further delay. 

“ Has Wilford bolted with the swag?” inquired the Early Greek 
youth, impelled by his anxiety to the use of somewhat Late Eng- 
lish. 

“Swag? A fat lot of swag ! No; Wilford hasn’t bolted, but 
the swag has bolted — if ever there was any. Look here. If any- 
body’ll offer you five hundred pounds down for your share of the 
plunder, just you close with him sharp !” 

And then by degrees Mr. Hopkins told his story, interspersed 
with some groans, several profane oaths, and a great many sips of 
brandy-and-water. 

His story amounted to this: The amount of Dalton’s wealth 
had been enormously exaggerated (apparently, in the first place, by 
himself), and what money he had had been recklessly embarked 
in wildly speculative investments — many of them clearly dishon- 
est in their nature. For some time before Dalton’s death he must 
have been aware that these investments were menacing ruin, and 
now they had, for the most part, collapsed altogether. Hopkins 
declared that, so far as he could discern, the whole estate would 
not realize a thousand pounds. But it may as well be stated that 
the sum total to be finally divided among the heirs proved to be 
a trifle over four thousand pounds. And that was the end of 
Chris Dalton’s great fortune. 

******* 

“But all that nonsense, my dear Olga,” said Mr. Kettering, 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


409 


“about refusing the inheritance always struck me as being in ex- 
tremely bad taste.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Hazel, who had been dining at the Ketterings’ to 
meet their old friends Fritz and Olga, had just gone away. Mr. 
and Mrs. Perikles Rhodonides were also of the party. So, too, was 
General Mullett, whom Lady Lambton had very nearly succeeded 
in marrying, but who had saved himself by a masterly inactivity, 
and was still in the uninterrupted enjoyment of his bachelor com- 
forts. 

“ Barbara Hazel is the sweetest woman in the world !” said 
Olga. Whereupon Olga’s husband kissed her hand. 

“Yes, yes; very sweet, very charming,” returned Mr. Kettering. 
“But as to that cock-and-bull story that was spread about at the 
time, of the young man having drawn up a document renouncing 
the money, and all the family agreeing to it — one really ought 
not to be expected to swallow that Rosa-Matilda kind of stuff.” 

“ Why not? I believe it, papa,” said Ida, very unexpectedly. 

Mr. Kettering looked round in surprise. His respect for his 
younger daughter had been greatly increased by her behavior at 
the time of her engagement to Perikles Rhodonides. In the first 
place, it argued the possession of some uncommon qualities to 
have attracted so wealthy and altogether eligible a suitor; and 
since her marriage Ida had comported herself with a good sense 
and dignity most remarkable in so young a girl. Olga had al- 
ways been considered the cleverer of the sisters ; but Mr. Ketter- 
ing had for some time past begun to doubt whether Ida’s were 
not the better brain of the two. 

“Indeed!” said he, raising his eyebrows at Ida’s remark. “I 
confess you surprise me, Ida.” 

“ Yes ; I quite believe it, papa. The Hugheses are like that. 
I dare say they would be glad to have more money. But there 
are so many things they put before it. I think money would 
come very low down in a list of the things that the Hugheses 
value.” 

Ida was not in the least impelled to follow the Hugheses’ ex- 
ample in this respect. Neither did she feel any sense of inferior- 
ity in herself for holding money in a different regard — a feeling 
which unconsciously influenced a good many people to declare 
that they didn’t believe in such high-flown sentiments. But her 


410 


THAT WILD WHEEL. 


inflexible honesty made her acknowledge the fact when she saw 
it. 

“ Well, I suppose they are as poor as mice,” said Sally Stringer. 
“ But if so — as somebody said on a very different occasion — ’twere 
pity it were known ! For two more radiantly happy-looking creat- 
ures than Hazel and his wife I never beheld. And vou’ll have a 
lot of stupid, coarse-grained people thinking, like the Cornish 
giant, that ‘ hur can do that hurself,’ marrying in haste on nothing 
a year, and repenting at leisure before the honeymoon’s over!” 

“ They are certainly not rich,” said Mr. Kettering ; “ but Hazel 
is doing well. They have a — a competency.” 

“Ah!” said Sally, nodding thoughtfully. “I see. A compe- 
tency. Well, I think a competency may be defined as an income 
that is amply sufficient — for other people.” 

Certain it was that in Hazel’s modest household no complaints 
of poverty were ever heard. The household included, now, Aunt 
Judith and William, and the faithful Larcher. In two years after 
Barbara’s marriage, William and his old aunt had continued to 
live in the shabby little house, in the dingy little street, where we 
first knew them. But at length they yielded to the solicitations 
of Gilbert and Barbara, and took up their abode with them. And 
no breath of family discord ever ruffled their daily lives. 

William Hughes’s name rose into high esteem among a few con- 
noisseurs; and his pictures fetched considerable prices. But he 
never reaped the full benefit of his reputation. He had been 
clogged from the beginning by debt to the dealers ; and, as he had 
said to Hazel, debt is an octopus that will pull down the strongest 
swimmer. He did not live to be old ; but he had the joy of hear- 
ing Barbara’s little daughter lisp his name. Aunt Judith survived 
him. And when she and Barbara hung weeping over his bed, 
knowing that he must leave them, his last words, spoken with a 
radiant smile that was like the very light of Heaven shining on his 
worn, care-lined face, were : “ Don’t cry, dears — don’t cry. I have 
been — very happy.” 


THE END. 


By MABY E. WILKINS. 


A New England Nun, and Other Stories. 16mo, Cloth, 
Ornamental, $1 25. 

The unerring skill, the faultless delicacy, and the almost touching fidel- 
ity with which these little stories are told, cannot be to highly commended. 
— Epoch, N. Y. 

Always there is a freedom from commonplace, and a power to hold the 
interest to the close, which is owing, not to a trivial ingenuity, but to the 
spell which her personages cast over the reader’s mind as soon as they 
come within his ken. . . The humor, which is a marked feature of Miss 

Wilkins’s stories, is of a pungent sort. Every story has it, and it is a savor 
which prevents some, that otherwise would be rather painful, from op- 
pressing the reader unduly. — Atlantic Monthly. 

What can we say that will express our sense of the beauty of “A New 
England Nun, and Other Stories?” So true in their insight into human 
nature, so brief and salient in construction, so deep in feeling, so choice in 
expression, these stories rank even with the works of Mrs. Stowe and Miss 
Jewett. . . . Here are twenty-four stories so complete in form, so exquisite 
in texture, so fine that to single out any one such as “A New England 
Nun,” “Callabilus and Hannah,” or “ The Revolt of Mother ” for especial 
praise, means simply that there are times when the author has surpassed 
the even beauty of her literary style. — Critic , N. Y. 


A Humble Romance, and Other Stories. 16mo, Cloth, 
Ornamental, $1 25. 

Only an artistic hand could have written these stories, and they will 
make delightful reading. — Evangelist , N. Y. 

The reader who buys this book and reads it will find treble his money’s 
worth in every one of the delightful stories. — Chicago Journal. 

Miss Wilkins is a writer who has a gift for the rare art of creating the 
short story which shall be a character study and a bit of graphic picturing 
in one; and all who enjoy the bright and fascinating short story will wel- 
come this volume. — Boston Traveller. 

The author has the unusual gift of writing a short story which is com- 
plete in itself, having a real beginning , a middle , and an end. The volume 
is an excellent one. — Observer, N. Y. 

A gallery of striking studies in the humblest quarters of American coun- 
try life. No one has dealt with this kind of life better than Miss Wilkins. 
Nowhere are there to be found such faithful, delicately drawn, sympa- 
thetic, tenderly humorous pictures. — N. Y. Tribune. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

The above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United 
States, Canada , or Mexico, on receipt of the price. 


BEN-HUR: A TALE OF THE CHRIST. 


By Lew. Wallace. 16mo, Cloth, $1 50. Garfield 
Edition. Two Volumes. Twenty Full -page Pho- 
togravures. Over 1000 Illustrations as Marginal 
Drawings by William Martin Johnson. Crown 
8vo, Printed on Fine Super-calendered Plate-paper, 
Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, Bound in Silk and 
Gold, $7 00. (In a Gladstone Box.) 

Anything so startling, new, and distinctive as the leading feature of 
this romance does not often appear in works of fiction. . . . Some of Mr. 
Wallace’s writing is remarkable for its pathetic eloquence. The scenes 
described in the New Testament are rewritten with the power and skill of 
an accomplished master of style. — N. Y. Times. 

Its real basis is a description of the life of the Jews and Romans at the 
beginning of the Christian era, and this is both forcible and brilliant. . . . 
We are carried through a surprising variety of scenes; we witness a sea- 
fight, a chariot-race, the internal economy of a Roman galley, domestic in- 
teriors at Antioch, at Jerusalem, and among the tribes of the desert; pal- 
aces, prisons, the haunts of dissipated Roman youth, the houses of pious 
families of Israel. There is plenty of exciting incident ; everything is anL 
mated, vivid and glowing. — N. Y. Tribune. 

From the opening of the volume to the very close the reader’s interest 
will be kept at the highest pitch, and the novel will be pronounced by all 
one of the greatest novels of the day. — Boston Post. 

“ Ben-Hur ” is interesting, and its characterization is fine and strong. 
Meanwhile it evinces careful study of the period in which the scene is laid, 
and will help those who read it with reasonable attention to realize the 
nature and conditions of Hebrew life in Jerusalem and Roman life at 
Antioch at the time of our Saviour’s advent. — Examiner, N. Y. 

The book is one of unquestionable power, and will be read with un- 
wonted interest by many readers who are weary of the conventional novel 
and romance. — Boston Journal. 

One of the most remarkable and delightful books. It is as real and 
warm as life itself, and a3 attractive as the grandest and most heroic 
chapters of history. — Indianapolis Journal. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

The above, work will be sen 4 by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United 
States, Canada, or Mexico , on receipt of the price. 







































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